THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


Joseph  P.  Loeb 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 


BOOKS  BY 
HENRY  BORDEAUX 

THE  WILL  TO  LIVE 

Translated  by  PITTS  DUFFULD 

THE   HOUSE 

Translated  by  LOUISE  SEYMOUR 
HOUOHTON 

FOOTPRINTS  BENEATH  THE 
SNOW 

Translated  by  LOUISE  SETMOUH 
HOUOHTOX 

THE  WOOLLEN  DRESS 

Translated    by    RUTH    HELEN    DAVIS 

THE    PARTING    OF    THE    WAYS 
Translated  by  LOUISE  SETMOUB 

HOUGHTOX 


THE  HOUSE  THAT 
DIED 

(LA  MAISON  MORTE) 


BY 

HENRY  BORDEAUX 

Member  of  the  French  Academy 

TRANSLATED  BY 
HAROLD    HARPER 


NEW  YORK 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 

1922 


Copyright,   1923,  by 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


Printed  in  U.  8.  A. 


ft) 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Prologue 3 

I.  Three   Generations 15 

II.  The  Arc  Gives  Up  the  Body 37 

III.  Our  Lord  in  the  Stable 56 

IV.  A  Belated  Vocation _  77 

V.  Suspicion 96 

VI.  The  Chamois*  Revenge     ......  118 

VII.  An  Ethical  Problem 134 

VIII.  Pursuit .147 

IX.  Hamlet's  Betrothal 166 

X.  In  the  Caves  of  the  Aisne  .._...  185 

XI.  La  Malmaison 201 

XII.  Benoit  and  Maddalena 219 

XIII.  The  Hearth  Without  a  Fire 240 

XIV.  The  Hermit  of  Hautecombe 247 

XV.  Weeds  258 


645273 


TO  THE 

MARQUIS  TREDICINI  DE  SAINT-SEVERIN 

MT  DEAR  FRIEND: 

You  are,  I  imagine,  our  mightiest  "hunter  before  the 
Lord"  of  chamois.  I  was  only  a  child  when  I  was 
first  filled  with  pity,  though  not  without  admiring  you, 
for  one  of  your  victims  beautiful  even  in  death. 

Will  you  allow  me  to  offer  you  this  book  through 
which  I  hope  there  breathes — even  through  a  terrible 
tragedy — the  air  of  our  high  mountains  and  valleys — 
to  offer  it  to  you  in  memory  of  our  hunts  and  of  the 
warm  welcome  I  always  received  in  that  cabin  on  the 
shores  of  Lake  Lovitel  which  our  dear  comrade  M. 
Joseph  de  Lafarge  transformed  into  a  most  delightful 
hermitage,  a  true  stronghold  against  care. 

HENRY  BORDEAUX 
Le  Maupas 

December  1st,  1921. 


vii 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 


PROLOGUE 

IT  is  one  of  those  old-fashioned  houses  built  of 
large  stone  blocks,  constructed  entirely  without 
the  use  of  mortar.  Yet  in  spite  of  its  antiquity 
• — the  date  1630  is  cut  into  the  granite  arch  above 
the  entrance  to  the  courtyard — it  mocks  at  time. 
A  wooden  gallery  runs  round  the  first  storey 
which  is  almost  completely  concealed  under  a  low 
roof,  giving  it  the  appearance  of  a  face  hidden 
beneath  a  hat.  The  sloping  roof,  covered  with 
slabs  of  unfinished  slate  almost  as  thick  as  stone 
blocks,  puts  the  final  touch  on  the  building  which 
resembles  a  squat,  thickset  turtle  with  its  head 
and  feet  drawn  in  for  protection. 

The  courtyard  is  deserted.  Anyone  may  walk 
in,  for  the  key  hangs  on  the  door.  In  entering 
you  descend  a  short  way,  the  distance  of  two  steps, 
and  enter  a  hallway  that  opens  on  the  left  into 
the  wood-shed,  where  there  is  a  large  supply  of 
wood,  enough  to  last  through  a  long,  severe  win- 
ter. To  the  right  is  the  kitchen,  and  through  the 
window  you  catch  sight  of  shining  copper  kettles 
and  boilers.  At  the  very  end  of  the  courtyard  you 
come  to  a  vast  room  with  a  paved  floor,  which  is 
lighted  by  two  windows.  On  each  side  are  the 
stalls  for  cows  and  mules.  A  gutter  runs  down 

9 


4  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

the  middle  of  the  floor.  The  rest  of  the  court  is 
used  as  a  dining-  and  bedroom  combined.  The 
dining-room  is  indicated  by  a  large  table  of  mas- 
sive wood  and  a  few  shelves  for  dishes  and  uten- 
sils, nailed  to  the  wall.  The  bedroom  consists 
of  those  two-storeyed  press-beds  that  occupy  an 
entire  wall  and  are  concealed  by  curtains.  In 
one  corner  of  the  beamed  ceiling  is  a  trap-door 
that  can  be  opened  to  permit  the  passage  of  a 
rope-ladder,  by  which  you  ascend  to  the  first 
floor,  where  there  are  other  rooms.  From  the 
kitchen  there  is  a  spiral  staircase  also  leading  to 
this  floor.  Here  the  grain  is  stored,  and  in  sum- 
mer people  live  in  it.  The  granary  is  close  by. 

How  does  it  happen  that  in  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury there  are  still  houses  where  man  and  beast 
live  together?  "Well,  it  does  happen — just  as  it 
happened  in  the  stable  where  Christ  was  born. 

The  household  I  am  about  to  describe  is  at 
Bessans  in  Savoy.  Bessans  is  a  village  of  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  or  two  hundred  families,  situated 
in  the  Haute-Maurienne,  at  an  altitude  of  over 
1,700  meters.  The  winters  up  here  are  long  and 
severe;  snow  falls  so  deep  as  to  block  the  doors 
of  the  houses,  and  often  the  very  windows.  At 
the  foot  of  many  of  the  paths  you  will  see  crosses 
indicating  the  burial-places  of  the  victims  of  the 
dreaded  avalanche.  So  you  will  readily  under- 
stand that  the  heat  of  a  stable  is  by  no  means  to 
be  despised  during  the  cold  weather.  In  summer 


PROLOGUE  5 

you  move  upstairs  when  the  heat  becomes  too 
intense. 

The  nearest  railway  station  is  forty  kilometers 
away:  it  is  Modane,  standing  at  the  entrance 
of  the  Frejus  Tunnel  on  the  route  to  Italy.  Bes- 
sans  is  hidden  away  almost  at  the  extremity  of 
the  Valley  of  the  Arc  between  the  ridge  of  the 
Vanoise  and  that  of  the  Charbonel.  Here  the 
earth  is  little  more  than  skin  and  bones:  vast 
stretches  of  rock,  with  occasional  forests  of  pine 
and  larch,  in  which  clearings  have  been  cut  for  a 
few  barren  farms.  The  land  reminds  one  of  an 
old  fur  ravaged  by  generations  of  moths.  Wheat 
will  not  grow,  but  in  the  spring  they  sow  Mani- 
toba grain.  Eye,  barley  and  oats  somehow  man- 
age to  thrive,  but  hay  is  not  ready  to  cut  before 
July.  The  Valleys  of  Eibon  and  Averole,  starting 
at  Bessans  and  bisected  by  the  Tierce  Peak  which 
stands  dominating  them  and  seems  to  threaten 
the  village  with  destruction  and  actually  deprives 
it  of  a  part  of  the  morning  sun,  offer  mountain 
pastures  to  the  flocks  and  herds  that  feed  there 
during  the  summer. 

At  that  season  the  melancholy  denuded  Mauri- 
enne  presents,  along  the  slopes  of  its  mountains 
glistening  with  glaciers  and  ice-fields  and  in  its 
ancient  parishes  rebellious  to  outside  influence,  a 
sad  and  haughty  grace,  like  the  smile  of  a  woman 
guarding  some  sacred  inner  flame.  No  one  who 
has  set  foot  in  this  country  ever  forgets  it.  As 


6  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

yon  enter  it  the  most  beautiful  landscapes  of 
Italy  and  France  fade  from  your  memory;  the' 
smiling  lakes  and  undulating  hillsides  that  so 
charmed  your  senses  are  forgotten  as  you  forget 
the  kermesses  of  the  Flemings  and  the  mechanical 
pageantry  of  the  Florentines  and  Venetians  when 
you  first  come  upon  the  tortuous  masterpieces 
of  the  Spaniards.  The  Alpine  cars  which  wend 
their  way  from  Modane  to  Lanslebourg,  there  to 
follow  Napoleon's  road  over  Mont-Cenis  down  to 
Suse  in  Piedmont,  or  those  that  follow  the  bed 
of  the  Arc  as  far  as  Bessans  and  Bonneval,  have 
made  the  country  accessible;  but  the  occasional 
sojourns  of  tourists  have  altered  neither  its  man- 
ners, its  dress,  nor  its  fundamental  character. 

The  key,  I  have  said,  hangs  on  the  door  and  I 
enter  without  asking  permission  of  anyone.  I 
know  very  well,  however,  that  my  audacity  has 
scandalized  the  village. 

I  can  sympathize  with  city  folk  who  have  no 
wish  to  bury  themselves  alive  at  Bessans  in  the 
Maurienne.  Did  not  Madame  de  Sevigne,  retiring 
for  economy's  sake  to  spend  a  winter  at  the 
Chateau  des  Eoches  in  Brittany  declare  that  one 
must  have  an  iron  constitution  to  remain  in  the 
country  late  in  the  season  and  be  able  to  support 
the  loneliness?  Here  in  the  Maurienne  the  soli- 
tude, intensified  by  the  encircling  mountains — 
brought  closer  together,  as  it  were,  in  winter — 
requires  the  strongest  sort  of  constitution,  an  in- 


PROLOGUE  7 

dependent  mind,  and  a  hatred  of  mankind,  or 
simply  a  long-established  habit. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  the  people  of  the  Com- 
mune should  so  sedulously  avoid  this  house  and 
allow  it  to  remain  open?  Is  it  not  strange  that 
no  one  would  ever  think  of  renting  or  buying  it ; 
that  it  should  thus  stand  like  a  condemned  crimi- 
nal without  appeal? 

Not  long  since  I  knew  it  when  it  was  gay,  busy, 
humming  with  life.  Three  generations  lived  there 
together,  not  counting  the  dog,  the  chickens,  and 
the  cattle.  Three  generations!  Enough  indeed 
to  assure  the  conquest  of  the  Promised  Land. 
Three  generations  living  under  the  headship  of 
the  aged  patriarch,  working  and  toiling  in  com- 
mon, and  to  all  appearances  existing  in  peace. 
Was  this  not  a  perfect  example  of  the  ancient 
patriarchal  family,  the  glory  and  mainstay  of 
our  rural  France  ?  And  yet,  within  ten  years  the 
inmates  have  disappeared,  the  three  generations 
vanished. 

This  disappearance  of  a  whole  race  is  by  no 
means  a  rare  phenomenon.  The  War  has  given 
us  many  similar  instances.  But  is  this  sufficient 
to  explain  the  reprobation  which  now  attaches 
to  this  charming  old  house,  meant  to  give  shelter 
to  man  and  beast  alike  beneath  its  solid  and 
abiding  roof?  Must  we  attribute  its  present 
abandonment  to  some  evil  deed,  to  some  hidden 
crime? 


8  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

The  Maurienne  was  formerly  a  land  of  sorcer- 
ers, and  many  superstitions  still  persist  among 
its  inhabitants.  Still,  everyone  knows  that  houses 
can  be  exorcized,  and  when,  at  the  ceremony 
which  takes  place  every  spring,  the  Cure  blessed 
all  the  roofs,  this  one  was  not  passed  by.  If 
you  inquire  of  the  neighbors  why  no  one  will  live 
in  it  they  will  tell  you  that  they  do  not  know. 
The  house  is,  after  all,  no  one's  affair,  and  each 
may  do  what  seems  good  to  him.  But  if  you  sug- 
gest that  anyone  accompany  you  into  it,  if  only 
for  a  brief  visit  of  inspection,  he  will  turn  his 
back  on  you  and  walk  off. 

Every  attempt  I  made  to  penetrate  the  mystery 
ended  with  the  "I  don't  know"  that  put  an  end 
to  all  discussion.  How  many  times  have  I  ques- 
tioned the  peasants  of  the  Valley,  either  at  Bes- 
sans — when  I  was  last  there — or  at  Chambery 
where  they  came  to  consult  me  about  their  law- 
suits! "Tell  me,"  I  ask,  "who  owns  the  Couvert 
house?"  "Nobody."  "Isn't  it  for  sale!"  "I 
don't  think  so."  "It's  falling  to  pieces,  isn't  it!" 
"Oh,  no,  it's  solid  enough."  "Why  does  no  one 
live  in  it?"  "I  don't  know."  "Is  it  bewitched?" 
"Oh,  we'd  know  if  it  was."  "Fine  people,  those 
Converts.  I  knew  them  intimately."  "Yes,  fine 
people."  "They  left  a  good  reputation  behind 
them."  "Oh,  yes."  "And  no  one  wants  to  live 
in  their  house  ?  Why  not ? "  "I  don 't  know. ' ' 

In  these  evasive  answers  I  never  discovered  the 


PROLOGUE  9 

least  malice  or  hint  of  anything  suspicions; 
they  indicated  no  more  than  a  systematic  re- 
fusal to  say  anything  definite.  I  was  eventu- 
ally convinced  that  everyone  in  the  parish  had 
ended  by  suspecting  what  I  suspected,  and  that 
our  common  suspicions  were  nourished  rather 
by  a  secret  instinct  than  by  any  logical  deduction 
from  the  facts.  I  believed  that  I  was  the  first  to 
formulate  these  suspicions  definitely:  I  was  the 
only  one  with  sufficient  data. 

I  can  explain  the  growth  of  this  common  sus- 
picion only  as  a  curious  mental  phenomenon  by 
which  the  same  current  of  thought  passed  through 
the  minds  of  all  the  peasants  as  well  as  through 
my  own.  All  of  us,  horror-stricken  at  our  con- 
clusion, but  without  proofs,  held  our  tongues,  for 
fear  of  being  mistaken,  or  rather  for  fear  of  the 
law.  It  was  not  necessary  to  agree  to  this  con- 
spiracy of  silence — we  were  united  by  a  common 
instinct.  No  one  confided  his  thoughts  to  his 
neighbor,  nor  would  say  why  the  Couvert  house 
was  now  abandoned.  Even  today,  after  the  pas- 
sage of  ten  years  has  outlawed  the  crime,  and  the 
criminal,  if  he  is  still  alive,  is  safe  from  justice, 
I  feel  morally  certain  that  no  one  would  dream  of 
mentioning  his  name.  Everyone  knows  who  he 
is,  but  no  one  will  accuse  him.  Here  again  is  a 
singular  instance  of  that  Crowd  Psychology  which 
a  modern  philosopher  has  attempted  to  explain, 
but  which  still  seems  so  obscure,  so  deeply  hidden 


10  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

in  its  causes  and  so  striking  in  its  sudden  har- 
monious functionings,  like  an  invisible  orchestra 
playing  in  unison. 

I  returned  to  Bessans  one  day  last  autumn.  As 
I  was  pressed  for  time  I  had  taken  an  automobile 
at  Modane  and  in  less  than  two  hours  I  was  on 
the  heights  above  the  Haute-Maurienne,  over 
which  the  clouds  floated,  now  hiding  from  me  the 
highest  summits  and  now  clinging  to  the  flanks 
of  the  mountains.  A  sharp  wind  drove  them  on- 
ward: I  could  imagine  I  heard  them  beat  like 
waving  flags.  The  first  snow  of  the  season  had 
fallen  to  a  point  only  a  few  hundred  meters  above 
the  valley  bottom.  It  glistened  as  the  sun  touched 
it.  The  reddish  fields  added  their  color  to  the 
thin  soil,  and  the  purple  shrubs  and  larches,  like 
golden  candelabra,  vividly  contrasted  with  the 
never-changing  pines.  After  leaving  Lansle- 
bourg,  the  town  that  stands  at  the  head  of  the 
road  into  Italy — or  rather  a  little  the  other  side 
of  Lanslevillard  with  its  stone  steeple  standing 
on  a  rock  like  a  pedestal — you  have  indeed  pene- 
trated into  the  heart  of  this  savage  and  fascinat- 
ing district.  The  country  appears  to  be  defending 
itself,  as  it  actually  did  defend  itself  in  the  distant 
past  when  the  Saracens  made  it  their  last  foot- 
hold. The  name  "Maurienne"  is  a  heritage 
from  the  Moors  who  during  the  whole  of  the 
tenth  century  inhabited  it  after  the  failure  of 
their  invading  expeditions.  It  was  the  Count 


PROLOGUE  11 

Berold  de  Savoie,  father  of  the  great  Humbert 
aux  Blanches-Mains  who  finally  drove  them  out 
of  Bessans  and  Bonneval.  Near  Lanslevillard 
you  may  still  see  the  remains  of  the  Saracens' 
wall.  But  there  was  hardly  need  here  of  artificial 
fortification,  as  Nature  had  amply  defended  the 
place.  Between  Lanslevillard  and  Bessans  you 
must  cross  the  Pass  of  La  Madeleine,  a  barren  de- 
serted spot  below  which  you  hear  the  hurrying 
current  of  the  querulous  Green  Arc.  As  you  leave 
the  Pass,  the  horizon  widens  out  and  the  valley 
lies  before  you  hedged  in  between  the  glaciers 
of  Mean-Martin  and  the  Croix  de  Don-Juan- 
Maurice,  beyond  which  stretch  the  fertile  districts 
of  the  Tarentaise,  Roche-Melon,  the  Charbonel, 
and  Albaron,  which  last  mark  the  boundary  be- 
tween Savoy  and  Italy.  The  belfry  of  the  Bes- 
sans church,  covered  with  sheet-iron,  reflects  each 
shifting  ray  of  sunlight  to  a  distance  of  many 
miles.  You  cross  the  Arc  and  before  you  stands 
the  village,  a  collection  of  huddled  roofs;  just 
above  it  and  to  one  side  is  a  large  Calvary  with 
its  terrible  image  of  the  Christ,  looking  as  if  it 
had  been  cast  down  from  the  frowning  heights 
above.  The  little  church  is  built  on  a  small  rise 
of  ground  and  stands  like  a  shepherd  tending  his 
flocks.  The  slate-covered  houses  complete  the  re- 
semblance by  looking  very  much  like  sheep,  trem- 
bling at  the  approach  of  a  storm. 
I  mounted  the  knoll  by  the  church  and  stood  in 


12  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

the  cemetery  by  the  small  chapel  of  St.  Anthony, 
whose  walls  are  covered  with  frescoes  painted 
centuries  ago  by  native  artists.  There  I  sought 
protection  from  the  mountain  wind.  It  was  Sun- 
day, and  I  saw  women  and  girls  arriving  from  the 
little  village  of  Averole  which  is,  I  believe,  next 
to  ficot  and  Bonneval,  the  highest  hamlet  in 
France,  lying  at  a  height  of  over  two  thousand 
meters ;  it  is  about  an  hour's  walk  from  the  parish. 
The  women  come  to  church  mounted  on  asses  and 
mules,  sitting  astride,  without  stirrups,  spurring 
the  little  beasts  with  a  kick  on  the  flanks.  The 
Bessans  costume  is  of  the  simple  Spanish  type: 
a  wide  black  skirt,  black  waist,  an  apron  or  a 
fichu  of  dark  brown  or  blue,  and  head-dress  of 
black  tulle,  which  allows  the  coiffure  to  emerge  at 
the  back  of  the  head,  the  whole  surmounted  by 
a  knot  of  ribbons  that  float  out  gaily  behind.  This 
is  the  only  bright  spot  to  relieve  the  severity  of 
the  rest  of  the  costume.  While  the  old  ladies  or 
women  in  mourning  wear  a  black  ribbon,  the 
young  girls  deck  themselves  out  in  bright  red, 
scarlet,  and  orange.  The  contrast  is  striking. 
The  bright  ribbon  dances  in  the  breeze  like  a  dart- 
ing ray  of  sunlight,  the  reflection  of  a  burning 
thought  that  will  not  brook  confinement.  It  is 
like  a  flame  in  the  night. 

These  women's  features  are  noticeably  regular, 
though  sometimes  you  will  find  them  accentuated 
— a  hooked  nose,  perhaps,  or  a  pointed  chin.  It 


PROLOGUE  13 

is  said  that  there  are  traces  of  Saracen  blood  in 
their  veins.  They  are  indeed  generally  dark- 
complexioned,  though  I  have  seen  girls  with  au- 
burn hair.  Everyone  carries  himself  with  a  no- 
bility and  easy  grace  the  like  of  which  you  will 
rarely  see  among  our  other  French  peasants.  A 
trip  to  Bessans  will  give  you  the  same  impression 
of  being  on  foreign  soil  that  you  receive  at  Fon- 
tarabie  on  the  Spanish  frontier. 

I  walked  round  the  Convert  house,  which  stands 
a  little  apart  in  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  This 
time  I  dared  not  enter,  I  who  had  been  a  guest 
there  for  so  many  years.  The  superstition  that 
clings  to  it  and  protects  it  had  ended  by  taking 
complete  possession  of  me.  The  key,  as  always, 
hangs  on  the  door,  but  my  hand  avoided  it  as  if  I 
feared  it  would  burn  me.  Not  the  palace  of  the 
sons  of  Atreus  itself  is  more  effectively  protected 
than  is  this  house. 

Within  its  wall  was  enacted  a  peasant  drama 
which,  to  me  at  least,  evokes  almost  as  fatefully 
the  memory  of  the  Furies  or  the  apparition  of 
the  Ghost  at  Elsinore.  I  cannot  tell  the  story  of 
this  drama  from  the  "inside":  that  would  pre- 
suppose my  knowing  things  which  I  do  not  know. 
I  shall  therefore  recount  only  the  external  events 
and  content  myself  with  bringing  together  the 
details  which  have  gradually  accumulated  in  my 
memory;  these  details  have  become  an  obsession 
and  at  last  a  positive  conviction.  Today  the  crime 


14  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

is  expiated,  not  by  its  perpetrator,  but  by  a  volun- 
tary offering  of  prayer  and  of  blood  on  the  part 
of  many  innocent  victims.  Is  the  murderer  still 
alive!  There  has  been  no  news  of  him  since  his 
mysterious  departure.  The  house  has  disgorged 
him;  it  could  no  longer  abide  his  presence,  for 
the  very  stones  have  a  soul,  and  every  stone  would 
curse  him.  Today  their  solitude  is  in  itself  an 
accusation. 


CHAPTER  I 

THBEE  GENERATIONS 

EVERY  year,  previous  to  the  war,  I  took  advan- 
tage of  the  annual  vacation  accorded  to  magis- 
trates to  leave  Chambery  and  spend  three  or  four 
weeks  at  Bessans  in  the  Maurienne,  in  the  chalet 
of  La  Lombarde,  situated  still  higher  up  in  the 
mountains.  I  used  to  hunt  heathercock  and  cham- 
ois— royal  game — on  the  slopes  of  the  Charbonel, 
of  Albaron,  or  of  Roche-Melon.  These,  as  I  have 
already  explained,  are  the  heights  between  Bes- 
sans and  Bonneval,  dividing  Savoy  from  Italy. 
At  this  extremity  of  the  Valley  of  the  Arc  the 
passes  are  numerous — the  Neck  of  La  Lombarde, 
through  which  passed  the  army  of  Count  Berold, 
and  the  Neck  of  the  Ames,  and  the  numerous 
passes  of  La  Levanna,  which  are  more  difficult 
and  therefore  preferred  by  poachers  and  smug- 
glers, who  are  at  home  anywhere  in  the  moun- 
tains. On  these  tramps  I  was  as  good  as  the  best 
of  the  masters  of  the  mountain ;  and  I  am  not  sure 
but  that  on  one  occasion  I  shot  a  chamois  in  the 
preserves  of  His  Majesty  the  King  of  Italy  be- 
yond the  frontier,  and  even  dragged  him  home, 
hotly  pursued  by  the  game  wardens.  The  famous 
Blanc — called  the  " Bailiff,'*  he  came  from  Bon- 

15 


16  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

neval  and  was  easily  the  peer  of  the  celebrated 
guides  Michel  Croz  and  Coutet  of  Chamonix — 
knows  something  about  that,  but  he  will  not  be- 
tray me. 

I  cannot  recall  without  a  thrill  of  pride  these 
expeditions  of  my  youth;  the  climb  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  early  morning,  the  choice  of  a  hiding- 
place  behind  a  rock,  situated  often  on  the  very 
edge  of  a  glacier  or  ice-field;  and  then  while 
waiting,  the  view  of  the  horizon,  every  detail  of 
it,  my  eye  wandering  down  to  the  slopes  of  green, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  junipers  and  tufts  of 
bilberry,  fiery  red  as  though  they  had  been  burned 
by  the  sun;  or  again,  up  to  the  mountain-tops, 
the  snowy  immaculate  peaks  resplendent  in  the 
crystal  air,  their  whiteness  standing  out  sharp 
against  the  deep  azure  sky — a  sky  at  once  pure, 
massive  and  yet  limpid,  in  no  way  reminiscent  of 
the  blue  of  the  Orient  or  that  of  Italy.  It  is 
simply  the  blue  of  Savoy,  purified  by  the  air  as 
it  comes  in  contact  with  the  virgin  heights.  And 
there  would  come  past  me  a  whole  herd  of  cham- 
ois fleeing  from  the  beaters  pursuing  them  in  the 
valley  below;  a  marvelous  exhibition  of  agility. 
As  they  leaped  over  some  rocky  precipice,  I  could 
see  each  muscle  distended  and  observe  the  black 
hoofs  so  divided  as  to  allow  them  to  make  their 
dangerous  way  over  a  course  that  is  as  easy  to 
them  as  the  grass  race-track  to  a  thoroughbred  on 
Derby  Day.  How  often  have  I  lingered  to  watch 


THREE  GENERATIONS  17 

them  and  missed  my  shot,  unable  to  make  up  my 
mind  to  fire.  They  were  too  noble,  too  fine,  too 
heroic!  Then  they  would  come  close  to  me,  arid 
I  could  distinguish  their  little  heads  with  the  curl- 
ing black  horns,  their  pointed,  mobile  ears,  and 
velvety  soft  brown  eyes.  Then,  of  a  sudden, 
scenting  me,  they  would  turn  sharply  and  scamper 
off  at  a  terrific  speed,  performing  the  most  peril- 
ous manoeuvres,  at  the  risk  of  slipping  and  falling 
on  the  rocks  below.  At  that  moment  they  become 
the  enemy — they  are  manoeuvring !  I  quickly  take 
aim  and  fire.  The  bullet  strikes  one  of  them;  he 
falls,  his  body  stretched  out  in  the  very  act  of 
leaping;  I  approach  and  discover  that  he  is  only 
wounded.  Seeing  me  he  makes  an  heroic  effort, 
rises  to  his  feet  and  runs  on,  forcing  me  to  pursue 
him  into  almost  inaccessible  places,  across  peril- 
ous chasms,  the  chamois  all  the  while  struggling 
against  fresh  wounds  and  trailing  a  broken  foot 
behind  him.  But  the  chamois  never  surrenders, 
and  his  blood — so  hot  as  to  burn  the  hands  that 
touch  it — is  an  antidote  against  dizziness  and 
fear. 

During  the  hunting  season  I  stayed  at  the  home 
of  one  of  my  clients — a  sly  old  rascal,  past  master 
in  the  art  of  entangling  business  affairs,  juggling 
with  assessment  records,  suborning  witnesses,  and 
securing  advantageous  grants  defining  the  course 
of  the  waterways  running  through  his  property. 
This  man  was  Jean-Pierre  Couvert.  The  court- 


18  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

house  was  his  theater,  and  there  he  was  the  lead- 
ing actor,  indeed  the  whole  show.  His  everlasting 
lawsuits  gave  him  legitimate  excuse  for  frequent 
trips  to  town.  The  peasant  likes  lawsuits  because 
they  give  him  an  opportunity  for  mixing  with  his 
fellow-beings  in  cities.  He  requires  diversion. 
But  this  sort  of  diversion  is,  to  say  the  least, 
rather  expensive. 

A  room  on  the  first  storey,  just  over  the  court- 
yard, was  always  set  aside  for  my  use.  This  room 
opened  out  upon  a  gallery  surmounted  by  a  slop- 
ing roof  which  was  so  low  that  it  seemed  on  the 
point  of  slipping  down  on  top  of  one. 

Jean-Pierre 's  eldest  son,  the  unmarried  Benoit, 
ordinarily  used  this  room,  but  when  I  came  he 
moved  out  together  with  his  few  belongings  and 
lived  in  the  granary.  The  family  lived  all  to- 
gether, as  families  frequently  do  in  this  part  of 
the  country. 

In  his  day  old  Jean-Pierre  had  been  a  hard  task- 
master. In  a  district  where  grave  disdainful 
manners  are  the  rule,  he  stood  out  above  all  the 
others;  he  had  a  natural  majesty  and  haughty 
solemnity  which  old  age  had  only  accentuated,  and 
which  he  never  for  a  moment  forgot,  even  when 
haggling  over  prices  in  the  market-place  or  driv- 
ing a  particularly  hard  bargain.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  the  Saracen  in  old  Jean-Pierre.  Like 
the  other  good  Mauriennais  he  treated  women  as 
an  inferior  species. 


THREE  GENERATIONS  19 

Consequently  his  wife  Petronille  obeyed  her 
husband  implicitly.  She  performed  instantly 
and  without  complaint  every  service  he  de- 
manded of  her,  understanding  even  the  word- 
less but  no  less  unequivocal  commands  he 
gave  by  throwing  a  wine-bottle  or  cider-jug 
at  her  head — a  pantomimic  performance  some- 
times necessary  after  heavy  drinking.  She 
glided  to  and  fro  in  her  soft  slippers  and 
no  sound  betrayed  her  presence  as  she  busied 
herself  indoors  or  went  out  to  pump  water  from 
the  well,  carried  the  watering-pots,  cooked  the 
meals  or  fed  the  chickens.  In  spite  of  these  duties 
she  found  time  to  attend  mass  once  or  twice  on 
week-days  and  on  Sundays  as  well.  She  was  so 
unobtrusive  that  no  matter  how  much  she  had  to 
do  she  gave  one  the  impression  of  never  stirring 
from  one  spot.  She  radiated  a  spirit  of  peace  upon 
everyone  about  her.  Without  preaching,  without 
scolding,  she  exercized  a  beneficent  influence  so 
subtle  that  you  did  not  realize  it  until  long  after 
you  had  felt  its  effects.  I  was  myself  not  con- 
scious of  this  until  some  years  after  I  came  to 
know  her.  I  was  in  the  habit  of  considering  Pet- 
ronille a  nonentity,  and  then  one  fine  morning  I 
discovered  that  I  had  been  living  in  the  presence 
of  a  saint.  Saintliness,  like  genius,  is  revealed 
in  sudden  flashes.  It  comes,  as  it  goes,  during  the 
course  of  our  every-day  life. 

The  two  sons  of  this  aged  couple — they  had 


20  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

two  daughters  as  well,  one  who  died  a  nun,  and 
one  who  "went  to  the  bad"  in  Paris — were  Benoit 
and  Claude.  Benoit  was  the  elder,  a  different 
person  in  every  way  from  his  brother.  Such  con- 
trasts are  not  unusual  in  families  and  are  the 
result  either  of  heredity  or  of  an  early  antagon- 
ism which  increases  with  the  years. 

The  elder  was  an  uncommunicative,  taciturn  fel- 
low; he  was  never  quite  comfortable  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  domineering  father,  a  man  who  often 
burst  into  declamatory  invective,  and  his  younger 
brother,  an  eloquent,  talkative  youth,  scintillat- 
ing, restless,  boastful.  He  had  sought  refuge 
from  these  two  in  work ;  he  had  made  of  work  his 
fortress,  and  taken  it  upon  himself  to  do  the  hard 
manual  labor.  In  summer  it  was  he  who  went  off 
to  live  alone  in  a  chalet  up  at  La  Lombarde,  high 
above  Bessans,  tending  the  sheep  at  pasture  and 
making  the  famous  blue  cheeses  for  which  Bes- 
sans is  celebrated.  He  was  a  tall  clean-shaven 
man  with  hard  regular  features,  and  an  ironic 
gleam  in  his  eye ;  a  person  very  difficult  to  know, 
the  kind  who  talks  philosophy  the  moment  you 
begin  a  conversation  with  him.  On  Sundays  after 
he  had  washed  his  face  and  donned  clean  clothes, 
he  was  quite  presentable.  The  girls  made  eyes 
at  him  after  mass,  but  he  passed  them  by  dis- 
dainfully. 

More  than  once  his  mother  had  spoken  to  him 
on  the  subject  of  marriage,  but  he  invariably 


THREE  GENERATIONS  21 

turned  a  deaf  ear.  It  was  some  time  before  I  ac- 
customed myself  to  his  unsocial,  or  rather  bar- 
baric, manners;  nevertheless,  I  succeeded  by  de- 
grees in  dragging  from  him  a  whole  collection  of 
proverbs,  maxims,  and  meteorological  pronounce- 
ments by  which  one  may  determine  weather  con- 
ditions by  observing  the  moon  and  the  clouds. 
For  instance:  "If  the  April  moon  begins  ill,  it 
ends  well";  or,  "Bed  clouds  in  the  morn  make 
the  mill-wheel  turn."  Exact  observations  these, 
and  very  useful  to  those  who  live  out-of-doors. 
When  the  evening  clouds  are  red  it  is  a  sign  of 
good  weather;  when  they  are  red  in  the  morning 
it  means  rain.  As  for  the  importance  of  the  moon 
in  matters  of  atmospheric  changes,  that  is  uni- 
versally acknowledged.  If,  for  instance,  his 
mother  had  insisted  that  he  choose  a  wife,  as  his 
brother  had  done  he  would  have  objected:  "Two 
pots  on  the  hearth  mean  good  cheer,  but  two 
women  mean  a  tempest";  or  else,  "There  should 
be  no  more  women  at  supper  than  there  are  pot- 
hooks on  the  hearth."  You  ought  to  hear  these 
proverbs  spoken  in  patois ;  they  lose  their  satiric 
flavor  when  transferred  to  cold  type,  and  the 
patois  of  our  country  defies  transcription,  requir- 
ing as  it  does  a  special  kind  of  pronunciation. 

Benoit  was  by  no  means  lacking  in  common 
sense;  his  sagacity  was  profound.  I  was  inter- 
ested in  him  and  made  serious  efforts  to  know 
him  more  intimately.  The  occasion  finally  came, 


22  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

but  strangely  enough  the  moment  we  found  our- 
selves becoming  friends  we  were  both  embar- 
rassed and  ill  at  ease,  for  there  arose  between 
us  an  indefinable  something,  the  reasons  for  which 
I  came  to  know,  only  too  well,  at  a  later  time. 

The  more  Benoit  held  aloof  from  others  the 
more  Claude  gave  in  to  his  own  exuberant  spirits ; 
while  the  one  shrank  from  the  society  of  people, 
the  other  was  everlastingly  in  search  of  an 
audience. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  short  man  with  a  beard, 
remarkably  agile  in  spite  of  a  rotund,  well-nour- 
ished body,  continually  on  the  move  and  making 
eyes  at  every  pretty  woman  he  saw.  Claude  was 
endowed  by  nature  with  the  ability  to  move  the 
skin  on  his  forehead  down  over  his  eyes,  to  the 
infinite  delight  of  his  friends.  He  could  also  wrig- 
gle the  lobes  of  his  ears,  a  performance  that  never 
failed  to  fascinate  children.  He  was  skilful  with 
his  hands  and  excelled  in  nearly  every  manual 
accomplishment  from  sewing  to  shooting  a  rifle; 
his  legs  carried  him  up  the  steepest  ascents  and 
down  the  sharpest  grades;  he  could  play  any 
musical  instrument,  performing  on  the  flute  with 
his  nose,  on  the  ocharina  with  his  lips  and  tongue, 
and  on  the  accordeon  with  his  arms,  while  his 
whole  body  danced  the  accompaniment.  The 
man's  uncanny  knack  of  being  in  many  places  at 
the  same  time  was  surely  a  gift  of  the  devil.  Peo- 
ple were  seeing  him  everywhere,  and  the  moment 


THREE  GENERATIONS  23 

he  appeared  on  the  scene  everyone  felt  happier, 
and  smiles  spread  over  faces  in  expectation  of 
"something  good."  Children's  eyes  glistened 
when  they  heard  his  footsteps,  which  were  easily 
recognized  by  their  rapidity — a  rare  thing  with 
peasants. 

At  home  he  had  of  course  undertaken  the  man- 
agement of  outside  affairs — the  selling  of  grain, 
cheese,  and  cattle,  and  attending  fairs.  He  often 
went  off  to  the  outlying  districts,  Saint-Jean- 
de-Maurienne,  Moutiers-Tarentaise,  Saint-Pierre- 
d'Albigny  on  the  banks  of  the  Isere,  and  Bourg- 
Saint-Maurice  at  the  foot  of  the  Petit  Saint-Ber- 
nard. He  could  do  wonders  with  a  dilapidated 
cart  and  an  old  mule. 

In  spite  of  the  many  enterprises  in  which  he 
engaged,  he  brought  very  little  money  home,  but 
his  father  would  accept  with  paternal  indulgence 
whatever  Claude  brought  back,  without  a  murmur 
of  complaint.  The  lad  was  exceptionally  clever 
at  avoiding  the  frequent  remonstrances  of  his 
mother. 

He  had  married  a  girl  from  Ceresole  in  Italy,  a 
village  the  other  side  of  the  Levanna,  brought 
within  the  domain  of  modern  progress  by  the  dis- 
covery of  iron-water  springs,  and  turned  into  a 
watering-place  for  the  summer  season.  Her  name 
was  Maddalena  Corona.  She  had  lived  the  life 
of  a  peasant  during  the  winter  and  been  a  cham- 
bermaid at  the  hotel  during  the  season.  She 


24  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

had  doubtless  been  won  by  Claude's  amusing 
grimaces  and  the  description  he  had  given  her  of 
the  Valley  of  the  Arc.  She  looked  like  a  Primi- 
tive Madonna,  with  her  triangular  face,  her  fore- 
head bound  tight  in  a  kerchief,  her  ivory  com- 
plexion, and  her  slight,  graceful  figure.  Her  wel- 
come at  the  Convert  home  would  have  been  a  very 
cold  one  had  it  not  been  for  the  generous  warm 
heart  of  Petronille.  I  learned  this  later,  when  I 
first  began  coming  to  Bessans.  TShe  dignified  old 
Jean-Pierre  and  the  taciturn  Benoit  did  not  fail 
by  their  manner,  if  not  by  words,  to  reproach 
her  for  being  a  foreigner  in  this  valley  whose 
people  are  proud  of  their  Savoyard  past  and 
consider  themselves  a  chosen  people.  Claude's 
frequent  absences  from  home  left  the  girl  entirely 
without  defence.  But  gradually  she  had  insinu- 
ated herself  into  the  good  graces  of  the  old  man — 
to  win  her  brother-in-law  was  a  different  matter. 
Since  the  mother  managed  the  household,  Madda- 
lena  was  enabled  to  give  free  rein  to  her  religious 
propensities,  which  were  manifested  in  a  more  or 
less  external  manner,  as  is  usual  with  Italians. 

She  was  not  satisfied  with  making  pilgrimages 
to  St.  Anthony,  the  patron  saint  of  Bessans,  and 
to  St.  Sebastian,  the  chief  saint  of  Lanslevillard, 
to  all  the  little  shrines  that  dot  the  countryside 
— and  to  that  of  Saint  Come,  Saint-Landry,  Saint- 
Laurence,  Notre-Dame-des-Glaces  or  Notre-Dame- 
des-Neiges,  or  to  all  the  other  calvaries  in  this  old 


THREE  GENERATIONS  25 

and  pious  district.  After  she  had  visited  these 
she  insisted  on  going  to  the  more  famous  sanctu- 
aries in  remoter  regions,  Notre  Dame-du-Poivre 
near  Tennignon,  so  called  in  memory  of  a  spice 
merchant  who,  returning  from  Italy  and  over- 
taken by  a  storm,  invoked  the  Virgin  and  promised 
her  his  goods;  Notre-Dame-de-Charmaix  among 
the  pines  of  the  Frejus  above  Modane,  founded, 
it  is  said,  by  Charlemagne;  Saint- Jean-Baptiste 
at  Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne  where  you  may  see 
three  fingers  of  the  saint  who  baptized  Christ, 
brought  back  from  Egypt  by  a  Valloire  shep- 
herdess; and  still  farther  away,  the  shrines  of 
Notre-Dame-de-Myans,  near  Chambery  (that  one 
stopped  the  course  of  an  avalanche  from  Mont- 
Granier) ;  Notre-Dame-de-Laus  near  Gap  (com- 
memorating certain  apparitions  of  the  Virgin  in 
the  seventeenth  century) ;  and  finally  the  shrine 
of  Salette,  that  rises  above  the  Valley  of  the 
Bonne — the  most  celebrated  of  all.  This  is  under 
the  spiritual  guidance  of  the  ecstatic  little  Melanie, 
elder  sister  of  Bernadette  of  Lourdes  and,  like 
her,  a  shepherdess. 

At  first  her  zealous  devotion  met  with  some  re- 
sistance, not  from  her  husband  who  was  always 
ready  for  a  long  trip  and  would  willingly  have 
gone  to  Jerusalem  if  he  had  been  able — and  would 
there  no  doubt  have  treated  s-ome  pretty  Saracen 
as  did  many  a  crusader — but  from  the  two  other 
men  who  disapproved  of  the  vagabond  journeys 


26  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

and  complained  of  their  cost  while  the  children 
were  allowed  to  run  wild  at  home.  The  good  Pet- 
ronille  made  every  imaginable  excuse  for  her 
daughter-in-law,  and  even  did  special  favors  for 
her.  It  was  better  that  the  girl  should  satisfy 
her  religious  cravings  than  her  personal  vanity, 
for  instance.  Maddalena  indeed  had  not  willingly 
accommodated  herself  to  the  rigidly  severe  style 
of  Bessans.  Bessans  required  the  wearing  of 
black,  while  the  other  parishes,  Saint-Colomban, 
Saint-Sorlin-d'Arves,  Saint- Jean-d'Arves,  and 
Fontcouverte,  ran  to  fine  laces  in  star  and  cres- 
cent designs,  golden  fichus,  red  waists,  blue  skirts, 
and  variegated  aprons.  Maddalena  had  brought 
with  her  a  whole  outfit  of  brilliantly  colored 
clothes,  scarlet  shawls,  and  gay-spangled  sashes 
which  delighted  her  husband  but  displeased  the 
head  of  the  family  and  Benoit,  both  of  whom  were 
uncompromising  in  matters  of  tradition  and  hos- 
tile to  all  innovation.  One  day,  however,  either 
because  she  had  wearied  of  her  own  resistance  or 
had  discovered  that  the  local  costume  was  becom, 
ing  to  her  madonna-like  beauty,  she  bowed  to  the 
inevitable  and  donned  the  sombre  dress  of  the 
district,  keeping  only  a  fire-colored  ribbon  which 
fluttered  about  her  neck;  this  she  would  never 
consent  to  hide  or  curtail. 

Maddalena  was  about  thirty  when  I  first  came 
rto  the  Couvert  home.  She  was  one  of  those  dark- 
complexioned  women  who  never  had  much  fresh- 


THREE  GENERATIONS  27 

ness  but  seem  able  to  retain  a  relative  youthful- 
ness  which  endures,  if  not  for  a  whole  lifetime, 
at  least  for  many  years.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
during  all  the  time  I  knew  her,  I  observed  scarcely 
any  change  in  her  appearance.  That  was  fifteen 
or  sixteen  years  ago,  perhaps  more.  I  see  her 
setting  the  table  with  a  certain  nonchalance,  her 
face  grave,  her  voice  droning  the  refrain  of  some 
sad  old  Piedmont  song.  I  have  no  idea  what  she 
was  thinking  of.  What  peasant  women  do  think 
of  is  often  beyond  our  comprehension;  perhaps 
she  was  thinking  of  nothing  at  all?  Her  pious 
excursions,  had  given  her  a  certain  keenness  of 
wit  which  often  surprised  me,  though  she  never 
spoke  many  words  at  one  time. 

When  she  was  at  home  two  little  boys  and  a  girl 
were  continually  with,  her :  Etienne,  Jean-Marie, 
and  Catherine — who  was  called  Eina,  the  Italian 
diminutive.  When,  she  was  not  at  home  they 
clung  to  the  skirts  of  their  tireless  and  complacent 
grandmother.  Etienne  was  the  eldest,  a  serious 
boy  of  twelve,  touched  perhaps  by  some  spark 
of  the  religious  fire  kindled  in  the  mother  through 
her  contact  with  some  miraculous  sanctuary.  It 
was  planned  that  he  should  enter  the  priesthood, 
a  career  he  would  have  followed  even  had  his 
determination  not  been  strengthened  by  a  terrible 
and  momentous  discovery.  Then  came  Catherine, 
aged  nine  or  ten,  and  finally  Jean-Marie,  aged  six. 
Jean-Marie  was  a  chubby-faced,  healthy  animal, 


28  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

very  like  a  little  dog  playing  in  the  sun,  literally 
overflowing  with  superabundant  health  and  hap- 
piness. 

I  used  to  take  Claude  with  me  when  I  went 
hunting.  That  was  my  way  of  ridding  myself  of  a 
formidable  rival,  for  if  he  had  been  allowed  to 
hunt  by  himself  I  would  have  accomplished  little. 
There  was  no  one  else  so  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  habitat  of  the  chamois — often  situated  as 
they  are  at  the  foot  of  a  rocky  peak,  on  some 
deserted  pasture  perched  high  on  a  steep  preci- 
pice, or  else  in  a  pine  wood  studded  with  rocks 
and  gashed  by  crevasses.  He  knew  them  all. 
He  followed  the  migrations  of  the  chamois  and 
went  wild  with  despair  if  they  retreated  to  a  dif- 
ferent canton,  but  pursued  them  to  discover  their 
new  residence,  chased  them  off  the  best  grazing 
grounds  away  from  that  bright  green  grass  which 
they  prefer  to  all  others — called  by  our  mountain 
folk  come  de  cerf  or  deer-horn,  because  of  its 
peculiar  twist.  I  suspected  that  during  the  mat- 
ing season  in  November,  or  in  April,  he  killed 
more  than  one,  contrary  to  all  the  rules  of  the 
chase.  My  bare  feet  had  trod  chamois  skins — at 
Bessans  and  at  the  little  chalet  up  in  the  moun- 
tains— far  thicker  than  any  I  ever  saw  during  the 
summer!  But  so  long  as  he  was  in  my  service 
he  was  the  soul  of  fairness.  How  pleasant  it  was 
to  have  him  with  me,  not  only  to  plan  every  detail 
of  the  chase  but  to  look  after  the  food  and  drink  I 


THREE  GENERATIONS  29 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  would  gather  twigs, 
light  a  fire,  and  cook  a  meal.  His  Italian  dishes 
— which  he  learned  from  his  wife  who  had  doubt- 
less filched  the  recipes  from  the  hotel  in  Ceresole 
where  she  had  worked — were  sometimes  a  little 
too  highly  spiced,  but  they  put  new  life  into  our 
exhausted  bodies  and  amply  satisfied  our  appe- 
tites. How  well  I  remember  his  "minestrone,"  a 
soup  composed  of  every  variety  of  vegetable  to 
which  he  added  olives  and  noodles;  his  rice, 
browned  to  a  turn ;  and  above  all,  his  fried  mush- 
rooms. These  he  had  gathered  in  the  fields  and 
woods,  discovering  them  by  a  happy  instinct.  I 
recall  their  umbrella-like  forms,  the  tenderest 
ones  hardly  opened,  juicy,  golden-tinted,  white 
and  red.  When  others  returned  from  foraging 
expeditions  empty-handed  you  would  see  him 
laden  with  spoils  smelling  of  the  forest.  Truly 
he  was  a  precious  adjunct,  a  man  I  could  never 
hope  to  replace.  Hunting  lost  its  attraction  for 
me  after  his  tragic  death. 

I  was  about  to  omit  one  detail,  a  detail  of  some 
importance  to  all — and  their  number  is  legion — 
who  have  suffered  the  tortures  of  thirst  in  the 
mountains  and  are  unwilling  to  adopt  the  substi- 
tute suggested  by  Theophile  Gautier :  * '  After  the 
hunt  I  have  only  the  water  of  the  heavens  to 
drink ;  I  drink  it  out  of  my  hands.  But  the  path 
I  follow  is  virgin  earth  and  knows  not  the  tread 
of  the  feet  of  man." 


30  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

At  our  picnic  lunches  the  gourds — for  the  wine 
— were  always  iced :  he  had  set  them  in  little  rock 
pockets  where  snow  had  lodged ;  these  he  had  dis- 
covered and  marked  beforehand.  Eabelais  would 
have  knighted  him  for  discovering  the  secret  of 
serving  cool  drinks  in  the  summertime. 

It  is  necessary  to  remark  that  the  peasants  of 
the  Maurienne  do  not  in  the  least  conform  to  our 
common  ideas  regarding  their  kind.  Their  coun- 
try is  an  old  one,  for  twenty  centuries  and  more 
the  scene  of  the  greatest  historic  events.  This 
district  witnessed  the  passage  of  Hannibal  with 
his  Carthaginians,  his  Numidians,  his  Spaniards, 
and  his  blacks,  his  numberless  cavalcade  of  ele- 
phants and  strange  monsters  driven  by  Hindoos. 
It  has  also  witnessed  the  passage — and  the  re- 
turn after  defeat — of  the  greatest  conquerors  and 
generals:  Hasdrubal,  Marius,  and  CaBsar,  the 
Barbarian  invaders ;  Charlemagne  the  Invincible ; 
Louis  the  Debonnair  who  founded  the  Hospice  of 
Mont-Cenis;  Charles  the  Bald  who  died  at  Av- 
rieux  on  the  banks  of  the  Arc,  poisoned  by  his 
doctor  the  Jew  Sedecias ;  Charles  VII  and  Fran- 
cis the  First,  splendid  princes  eager  to  bring  into 
France  the  art  and  magnificence  of  the  Italian 
Eenaissance;  the  armies  of  the  Revolution  with 
the  greatest  of  their  warriors ;  Napoleon  the  Em- 
peror, who  almost  perished  in  the  snows ;  and  the 
troops  of  the  Second  Empire  coming  to  help  the 
Italians  in  their  struggle  for  freedom.  During 


THREE  GENERATIONS  31 

the  last  Great  War  the  leaders  of  the  nation,  to- 
gether with  the  generals-in-chief  met  at  Modane, 
and  in  November,  1917,  camions  crossed  the  Alps 
laden  with  French  and  English  soldiers  going  to 
reinforce  our  Latin  brothers  on  the  Piave. 

Such  scenes  have  left  their  impress  on  the  en- 
tire people,  whose  ardent  imaginations  demand 
and  feed  upon  the  supernatural,  the  miraculous, 
the  abnormal. 

The  peasant  casts  his  eyes  up  over  the  glaciers 
that  circle  about  him  and  threaten  destruction, 
and  dreams  of  overcoming  the  laws  of  gravity  and 
of  time.  He  delights  in  skirting  the  borderland 
of  the  future :  The  prophetess  Cancianile  comes 
from  Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne  to  announce  dire 
catastrophes,  cholera,  war  and  famine.  The  peas- 
ant believes  implicitly  in  sorcerers  and  magicians 
who  bewitch  cattle  and  cast  spells,  and  ride  to 
ghostly  nocturnal  meetings  on  broomsticks. 
Where  but  in  the  Maurienne  would  it  have  been 
possible  for  a  whole  school  of  children  to  deter- 
mine to  cross  the  mountains  and  deliver  the  Pope 
who,  they  heard,  had  been  made  a  prisoner;1 

or  for  a  village  cure,  the  victim  of  an  attempted 
murder,  to  secure  protection  only  by  taking  into 
his  service  the  man  who  tried  to  kill  him?2  Such 


1  See  La  Nouvelle  Croisade  des  enfants,  by  Henry  Bordeaux. 

2  See  the  same  writer  'a  Le  Curg  de  Lanslevillard  in  the  Garnet 
d'un  stagiaAre. 


things  are  not  wondered  at  here,  so  deeply  rooted 
is  the  desire  to  escape  from  every-day  realities,  to 
live  strenuously,  to  taste  the  bitter,  to  slip  from 
the  actual  into  the  land  of  dreams,  of  deviltry, 
or  the  open  skies  above. 

The  Maurienne  has  at  all  times  preserved  intact 
its  own  peculiar  form  of  civilization,  the  legends 
and  tales  and  mysteries  of  which  are  transmitted 
orally  from  generation  to  generation.  Those  of 
her  soldiers  who  saw  Flanders,  Italy,  the  Ehine 
or  the  Orient,  and  were  fortunate  enough  to  re- 
turn, have  added  new  elements  to  the  old.  Some 
of  the  tales  you  hear  nowadays  are  obviously  mod- 
ern, as  for  instance  that  of  the  Bessans  peasant 
who  befriended  a  wolf  and  was  in  turn  saved  by 
the  animal.  As  far  back  as  the  fifteenth  and  six- 
teenth centuries — perhaps  earlier,  for  the  memory 
of  man  is  lost  in  the  night  of  time — Bessans  had 
her  own  painters  and  poets.  The  artists  of  Bur- 
gundy or  the  Low  Countries  as  they  passed  over 
the  Alps  from  Italy,  laden  with  wondrous  spoils, 
stopped  here  and  paid  for  their  board  and  lodging 
with  drawings  or  statuettes.  The  secrets  of  the 
new  art  were  soon  learned  and  men  in  the  Valley 
began  to  paint.  The  frescoes  in  the  Chapel  of  St. 
Sebastian  at  Lanslevillard  and  in  St.  Anthony  at 
Bessans  (especially  the  former,  which  are  better 
preserved)  are  simple  and  rather  crude,  but  they 
bear  witness  to  a  genuine  primitive  school  which 
flourished  a  little  later  than  that  of  the  Italians. 


THREE  GENERATIONS  33 

One  Jean  Clappier3  of  Bessans  set  to  carving 
wood;  he  did  a  number  of  very  quaint  altar 
screens  and  statues  of  the  saints.  He  .founded  a 
school  in  his  own  family,  as  well  as  in  the  village 
where,  forty  years  later,  a  certain  Vincendet  suc- 
ceeded him:  he  specialized  in  the  carving  of 
wooden  devils.  It  was  by  such  men  as  these  that 
the  oratories,  chapels,  and  sanctuaries  hereabouts 
were  decorated. 

While  the  Mystery  of  the  Passion  was  being 
performed  at  Chambery,  the  Last*  Judgment  at 
Modane,  and  the  Patron  of  Tours  at  Saint-Martin- 
de-la-Porte,  the  dramatists  of  Bessans  gave  per- 
formances either  in  the  open  or  in  the  Chapel  of 
St.  Anthony,  offering  the  Mystery  of  St.  Se- 
bastian, or  the  Nativity,  or  Job.  The  simple  and 
unaffected  dialogue  of  these  plays  has  survived 
and  in  it  we  may  read  charming  commentaries  on 
the  Annunciation  and  the  Incarnation — words 
that  are  possibly  no  more  than  transpositions  of  a 
prose  Noel  attributed  to  St.  Bernard  himself. 
For  instance:  " Jesus  entered  into  her — of  this 
there  is  no  doubt — as  the  sun  passes  through  a 
window  without  breaking  the  glass.'* 

In  the  Mystery  of  St.  Sebastian  Folly  takes  pos- 
session of  the  entire  world  for  her  kingdom :  ' '  For 

1  See  Les  Peintures  murales  des  chapelles  Saint-SSbastien  et 
Saint- Antoine  d  Lanslevillard  et  Bessans,  by  Lucien  Begule; 
Academy  of  Sciences,  Letters  and  Arts  of  Lyons.  (Bey,  Lyons, 
1918). 


34  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

Folly  hath  at  all  seasons  more  subjects  than  the 
king  himself.  So  many  people  ask  for  me  that  I 
cannot  serve  them  all.  Methinks  I  shall  find  it 
hard  to  visit  all  my  good  subjects  between  here 
and  ISurin  in  a  single  day." 

The  good  people  of  Bessans,  guided  by  an  in- 
stinct of  local  patriotism  not  altogether  devoid  of 
modesty,  have  appropriated  to  themselves  the  In- 
fant Jesus  who,  according  to  them,  was  born  not 
at  Bethlehem  but  at  Bessans.  It  was  the  shep- 
herds of  the  Maurienne  who  were  the  first  to 
adore  Him,  for  is  it  not  related  that  when  the 
Virgin  was  confined  an  ox  and  an  ass  were  in  the 
stable  with  her?  And  everyone  knows  that  men 
and  beasts  live  together  only  in  the  Maurienne. 

We  have  then  a  parish  of  five  or  six  hundred 
people,  situated  at  an  altitude  of  1,700  meters 
above  sea-level  where  means  of  communication 
are  few;  a  district  which  in  the  16th  century  had 
poets  to  write  its  plays,  actors  to  interpret  them, 
and  painters  to  make  scenery.  And  we  still  speak 
of  the  ignorance  of  bygone  ages  and  boast  of  our 
progress  in  education  !4 

This  extraordinary  civilization,  in  which  exist 
at  once  a  simple  credulity  and  a  thirst  for  knowl' 
edge,  has  managed  to  perpetuate  itself  from  age 
to  age.  Scholars  have  recently  published  the  diary 

*  See  Secits  mauriennais,  a  monthly  review  edited  by  the  Abbe" 
Truchet  (Imprimerie  VuUiennet  at  Saint- Jean-de-Maurienae, 
1889.) 


THREE  GENERATIONS  35 

of  a  Bessans  peasant,  Etienne  Vincendet,  written 
during  the  French.  Kevolution.  This  Vincendet 
wielded  the  pen  very  much  as  he  handled  his 
chisel,  for  he  was  both  writer  and  sculptor,  though 
he  had  not  studied  either  of  the  arts  he  practised. 
In  his  diary  he  describes  with  the  utmost  preci- 
sion the  political  rumblings  and  economic  up- 
heavals so  far  from  his  native  Valley ;  his  are  the 
remarks  of  a  practical,  sane-minded  fellow  and  his 
attitude  on  the  situation  is  entirely  unlike  that  of 
any  other  peasant  of  his  day.5  Nowadays  the 
people  of  Bessans  occupy  their  leisure  hours  dur- 
ing the  winter  in  wood-carving,  or  else  go  to  Paris 
as  taxi  drivers,  returning  after  the  Grand  Prix 
to  sow  their  fields.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that 
the  Academy  Council — quite  wrongly,  I  think— 
were  very  much  worked  up  over  the  discovery  of 
secret  societies  in  the  stables  where  the  traditions 
of  this  valley  were  being  taught.  The  societies 
were  forthwith  suppressed. 

My  friends  the  Couverts  were  typical  specimens 
of  this  race  of  dreamers  and  practical  men,  as 
formidable  in  the  market-place  as  they  are  pious 
at  their  sacred  shrines.  From  the  very  first  I 
had  noticed  traces  of  defiance  in  Maddalena's  at- 
titude toward  her  brother-in-law,  Benoit,  and  in 
him  a  haughtiness  and  cynicism  on  the  occasions 


6  See  the  Journal  d'un  pay  son  de  Maurienne  pendant  la  Eevolu* 
tion  et  I'Empire,  published  by  Francois  Vermale.  (Dardel,  Cham* 
Wry,  1919.) 


36  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

when  Claude  amused  the  company  with  his  ever- 
lasting babble  and  queer  amusing  antics.  But  all 
such  indications  of  diverse  and  antipathetic  tem- 
peraments— almost  unavoidable  in  houses  where 
the  family  lives  together — were  minimized,  and 
soon  vanished  altogether  under  the  influence  of 
the  saintly  Petronille,  and  besides,  the  children, 
happily  ignorant  of  the  temperamental  vagaries 
of  their  elders,  prevented  any  sort  of  outbreak 
between  the  others. 

For  five  years,  during  the  hunting  season,  I  was 
a  guest  in  this  home  without  once  realizing  that 
I  stood  over  a  yawning  chasm.  I  felt  absolutely 
at  home  there,  joked  with  Maddalena,  smoked  my 
pipe  with  the  old  man,  asked  advice  of  his  saintly 
wife,  played  with  the  children  and  almost  suc- 
ceeded in  inducing  Benoit  to  emerge  from  his  se- 
clusion. As  for  Claude,  my  companion,  he  was  a 
real  friend.  So  far  as  I  was  concerned,  my  true 
happiness  was  there  at  Bessans,  in  the  bosom  of 
'this  united  family  where  three  generations  were 
in  gradual  process  of  carrying  on  the  torch  of 
their  age-old  and  noble  traditions.  It  was  in  the 
midst  of  this  that  the  murder  was  committed. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  ABC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY 

THIS  is  how  it  happened.  I  am  here  writing  my 
deposition  as  witness,  not  merely  the  bare  facts 
I  gave  to  the  court  at  Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne, 
but  with  the  addition  of  certain  details  and  ob- 
servations which  occurred  to  me  at  a  later  time. 
It  was  this  additional  data  which  served  to 
strengthen  and  finally  to  confirm  my  suspicions. 

We  had  installed  ourselves  for  the  season  in 
the  narrow  Valley  of  La  Lombarde,  a  prolonga- 
tion of  the  Valley  of  Averole  that  begins  at 
Bessans  and  runs  down  between  the  vast  heights 
of  Le  Charbonel  and  Albaron.  The  Valley  is  in- 
habited only  during  the  summer  months,  when  the 
shepherds  bring  their  flocks  there  to  pasture. 

The  Couverts  own  two  chalets,  one  of  which 
was  used  by  Benoit,  who  lived  alone  tending 
sheep  and  making  cheese.  Claude  and  I  used  the 
other,  which  is  higher  up  and  more  comfortable 
than  Benoit 's.  I  had  selected  this  because  it  was 
near  the  hiding-places  and  also  because  a  secret 
instinct  had  taught  me  that  the  brothers  did  not 
care  to  be  too  near  to  each  other.  None  the  less, 
it  was  convenient  to  have  Benoit  not  too  far  away, 

87 


38  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

as  he  supplied  us  with  fresh  milk.  Besides,  Mad- 
dalena  rode  up  on  her  mule  with  provisions  sev- 
eral days  a  week,  bringing  with  her  my  mail.  In 
former  years  she  brought  with  her  on  these  ex- 
cursions one  of  her  sons,  but  now  the  boys  were 
growing  up :  Etienne,  the  elder,  was  nearly  seven- 
teen and  Jean-Marie  was  twelve,  and  they  were 
needed  on  the  farm. 

One  day — it  was  the  12th  of  September  a  dozen 
years  ago — we  returned  from  hunting  rather 
earlier  than  usual  (I  think  it  was  between  four 
and  five),  carrying  a  chamois  we  had  killed  on 
the  edge  of  the  Arnes  Glacier  near  the  Italian 
border.  I  made  a  present  of  him  to  Claude,  who 
seemed  very  anxious  to  have  him. 

"I've  got  time  to  take  it  down  to  Bonneval  this 
evening,"  he  said. 

"Why  to  Bonneval  and  not  Bessans?  Bonne- 
vaPs  a  long  way." 

"Because  the  Bonneval  hotel  wants  it  for  their 
guests." 

"You  can't  return  in  time  for  the  hunt  to- 
morrow?" 

"Why  not?    Ill  walk  back  at  night." 

"Then  listen  to  me:  we  shan't  start  so  early  in 
the  morning.  Come  back  tomorrow,  and  spend 
the  night  at  Bessans  with  your  wife." 

"Oh,  my  wife!" 

And  he  spat  on  the  ground  to  show  what  he 
thought  of  that.  Inasmuch  as  this  is  not  an  un- 


THE  ARC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY          39 

common  performance  among  the  Mauriennais,  I 
ought  to  have  paid  no  attention  to  it.  As  I  have 
already  said,  women  are  considered  an  inferior 
race.  But  this  was  different :  Claude  had  hitherto 
treated  Maddalena  at  least  with  kindness  and  con- 
sideration if  not  with  positive  respect.  The  act 
in  itself  was  nothing,  but  I  could  not  help  noticing 
the  man's  attitude.  It  was  strange. 

I  added:  " Perhaps  you'll  meet  her  on  the 
path.  She 's  due  with  provisions  today.  Or — why 
not  wait  for  her?  You  could  put  the  chamois  on 
her  mule?" 

"I  haven't  time  for  that.  I'd  rather  depend  on 
my  own  legs  and  arms — it's  surer.  I'll  find  a  cart 
at  Bessans." 

As  we  stood  talking  he  cleaned  the  animal  and 
bound  its  feet  together.  Then  he  slung  the  car- 
cass over  his  shoulders  like  a  trophy,  while  the 
pretty  wild  head  of  the  chamois  with  its  black 
curved  horns  fell  over  his  neck  and  down  his 
back.  Claude  looked  like  a  bearded  faun,  cruel 
and  tricky.  He  stuck  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
grasped  his  stick,  whistled  for  his  dog  "Coal," 
and  plunged  into  the  woods. 

It  was  the  last  time  I  saw  Claude  alive. 

That  night  the  beaters  cooked  supper  for  me. 
The  soup  they  served  me  was  not,  indeed,  Claude's 
soup,  nor  did  the  mushroom  omelette  or  fricas- 
sees approach  the  high  standard  Claude  had  set. 
But  I  made  the  best  of  it. 

Just  after  nightfall  we  had  a  storm,  a  sudden 


40  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

unannounced  mountain  tempest,  that  prevented 
my  leaving  the  chalet. 

"Claude  must  now  be  at  Bonneval,"  I  remarked 
to  the  men. 

"He'll  spend  the  night  there,  too,"  said  one 
of  them. 

Everyone  laughed  loudly.  I  took  this  as  an 
allusion  to  Claude's  love  of  drink  or  possibly  to 
some  amorous  adventure,  for  I  knew  his  reputa- 
tion. I  allowed  the  comment  to  pass  and  said 
nothing. 

The  chalet  trembled  with  the  repeated  buffets 
of  the  wind  as  if  some  mountain  demon  were  shak- 
ing it  like  a  salad-basket.  The  rain  trickled 
through  the  roof  and  at  first  I  found  it  impossible 
to  sleep.  Later,  when  I  awoke  from  a  moment's 
doze,  I  caught  sight  through  a  small  hole  in  the 
roof  of  a  clear  and  starry  sky.  The  stars  twink- 
led with  the  unaccustomed  freshness  they  assume 
just  before  or  after  a  severe  rain.  "Beautiful 
weather  for  hunting,"  I  thought  as  I  rolled  over 
and  went  to  sleep.  I  awoke  late  and  verified  the 
truth  of  my  prediction :  there  was  every  promise 
of  a  soft -fair  day.  I  was  sorry  now  I  had  al- 
lowed Claude  to  spend  the  night  below. 

"He's  not  back  yet?"  I  inquired. 

"Not  yet." 

And  again  the  men  laughed.  At  about  eleven 
I  became  impatient  and  went  down  as  far  as 
Benoit's  hut.  I  found  him  stripped  to  the  waist, 


THE  ARC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY         41 

washing  his  clothes  and  hanging  them  up  to  dry. 
Keferring  to  his  informal  costume  I  said  with  a 
laugh : 

"I  see  you  went  out  in  the  storm  last  night  and 
got  a  good  drenching.'* 

"I  was  after  one  of  the  cows,"  he  explained. 

"Did  you  see  Claude?" 

"No." 

"He  was  taking  a  chamois  to  Bonneval  and 
he's  not  come  back  yet." 

" Bonneval 's  quite  a  distance." 

"Didn't  you  see  him  last  evening  on  his  way 
down?" 

"No." 

"Has  Maddalena  come  up?  Yesterday  was  her 
day,  you  know." 

"Oh  yes,  I  saw  her." 

"She  didn't  come  to  us." 

"Here's  some  mail  she  left.  She  came  late 
last  night." 

"But  you  didn't  allow  her  to  go  back  in  that 
storm,  did  you?" 

He  looked  me  straight  in  the  eye,  as  he  an- 
swered: "No:  she  didn't  go  back  till  early  this 
morning." 

Knowing  him  as  I  did  I  could  read  the  thought 
foe  had  not  put  into  words:  "I'm  not  an  absolute 
brute,  as  you  seem  to  insinuate.  Though  I've 
never  gone  out  of  my  way  to  oblige  my  sister-in- 
law,  I'm  not  one  to  send  her  away  from  my  house 


42  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

on  a  night  like  last  night.  In  the  Maurienne  we 
have  some  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things !" 

"Well,"  I  said,  turning  to  go,  "so  much  the 
worse.  We'll  have  to  go  hunting  without  him." 

The  hunt  that  day,  already  seriously  delayed, 
was  not  successful.  My  beaters  set  about  their 
business  in  a  lackadaisical  way.  We  returned 
home  out  of  sorts.  I  was  in  a  mood  to  vent  my 
ill-humor  on  Claude,  only  Claude  had  not  yet  put 
in  an  appearance.  This  time  there  was  no  laugh- 
ing. No  one  could  remember  when  a  hunter  had 
failed  to  turn  up  after  a  night  of  pleasure.  Evi- 
dently something  unusual  had  occurred :  perhaps 
he  had  slipped  on  the  way  down  the  mountain,  it 
was  not  impossible,  laden  as  he  was  with  a  heavy 
chamois,  or  maybe  he  had  quarreled  in  some  wine- 
shop at  Bonne val.  I  recalled  how  on  one  occa- 
sion I  had  had  to  intervene  with  the  local  police 
in  an  affair  of  that  kind. 

After  supper  I  took  a  lantern  and  descended  to 
Benoit's  chalet.  The  door  was  closed,  and  I 
shouted.  No  answer:  the  shepherd  must  have 
gone,  for  the  pasture  gate  had  been  carefully  fas- 
tened. He  had,  no  doubt,  been  summoned  to  Bes- 
sans.  There  was  no  longer  room  for  uncertainty : 
something  out  of  the  ordinary  had  happened  to 
Claude. 

I  was  too  tired  to  go  down  into  the  valley  and 
make  sure.  I  waited  therefore  until  morning  and 
at  sunrise  I  set  out. 


THE  ARC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY          43 

When  I  entered  the  house  everyone  was  in  the 
stable  courtyard,  fully  dressed;  no  one  had  gone 
to  bed.  I  could  see  that  the  crisis  of  wailing  and 
lamentation  had  already  passed.  It  was  now  suc- 
ceeded by  a  period  of  mute  despair.  No  one  ut- 
tered a  word,  not  even  little  Jean-Marie,  who 
stood  clinging  to  his  grandmother.  The  silence 
was  the  more  moving  as  it  was  the  only  manifes- 
tation of  grief.  It  was  with  considerable  trepi- 
dation that  I  dared  break  the  silence  by  asking: 

"What  has  happened?" 

Naturally  it  was  old  Jean-Pierre  who  an- 
swered, weighing  each  word  and  preserving  his 
majestic  dignity  in  the  presence  of  this  over- 
whelming calamity: 

"They're  looking  for  him." 

"He's  not  come  back  yet?" 

"No." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Night  before  last  he  came  to  show  the  chamois 
to  the  children  before  taking  it  to  Bonneval,  and 
to  borrow  a  mule  from  Peraz,  our  neighbor.  Our 
own  mule,  you  know,  was  up  at  the  chalet — 
Maddalena  took  him  with  her.  Yesterday  morn- 
ing the  mule  came  back  to  Bonneval  alone.  Coal 
ran  on  ahead  and  waked  us  up  with  his  barking." 

Coal,  you  will  remember,  was  Claude's  little 
black  dog.  The  old  man  went  on : 

"We  opened  the  door  and  let  him  in.  Why  did 
he  come  back  without  his  master?  We  thought 


44  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

maybe  the  boy'd  lost  his  way.  But  the  dog  kept 
on  barking:  we  couldn't  make  him  stop.  Claude 
hadn't  come  back  at  sunrise.  That  was  queer,  be^ 
cause  he  ought  to've  brought  us  the  money  from 
the  chamois,  so  I  took  Etienne  with  me  and  we 
followed  the  dog.  He  led  us  to  the  butcher's  in 
Bonneval,  and  then  to  the  inn,  and  then  to  the 
road." 

"He  was  taking  you  over  the  path  his  master 
had  gone  T ' ' 

"That  was  it.  Before  you  get  to  the  chalets  of 
Barmanere  the  road  goes  alongside  the  stream; 
At  one  place  Coal  began  barking  like  the  devil, 
and  led  us  over  to  the  bank  and  then  right  down 
to  the  water.  We  didn't  find  anything  there. ' ' 

"The  current  must  have  carried  the  body  off, 
ehf  You  remember  Saint-Landry?" 

Saint-Landry  was  a  monk  held  in  especial 
honor  throughout  the  Valley,  a  man  who  had 
come  from  Piedmont  to  win  over  the  people  of 
Bessans  and  Bonneval  from  their  Saracen  faith. 
The  inhabitants  of  Bonneval  had  thrown  him  into 
the  Arc.  His  body  was  recovered  at  Lanslevil- 
lard,  without  the  trace  of  a  wound  or  scratch  upon 
it,  in  spite  of  the  swiftness  of  the  current  that 
had  rolled  and  tumbled  it  for  a  distance  of  ten 
kilometers. 

"Yes,  the  Arc  is  very  high  now.  It  might  have 
carried  the  body  downstream.  But  not  very  far. 
They're  looking  for  him  now  between  Bessans 
and  Bonne val." 


THE  ARC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY          45 

"There's  still  hope  so  long  as  the  body  hasn't 
been  found." 

"No.  Dogs  aren't  like  people.  They're  never 
wrong. ' ' 

As  the  father  rendered  this  solemn  verdict 
Benoit  went  off.  They  had  sent  little  Jean-Marie 
for  him  the  evening  before,  but  he  could  not  come 
at  that  time,  as  his  flocks  required  all  his  atten- 
tion. He  must  now  return  to  them. 

The  aged  Petronille  had  fallen  to  her  knees  on 
the  stone  floor  of  the  stable,  the  others  following 
her  example:  the  children,  Maddalena,  Jean- 
Pierre,  and  I  myself.  She  had  put  on  her  glasses 
to  read  the  prayers  from  her  Book  of  Hours 
recommending  the  departed  soul  to  God.  In  the 
intervals  between  prayers  the  mule  could  be 
heard  crunching  his  meal  and  chasing  flies  off 
with  a  switch  of  his  tail  or  a  sudden  kick. 

As  Petronille  was  in  the  middle  of  a  particu- 
larly difficult  passage — she  was  little  used  to  read- 
ing— we  heard  footsteps  in  the  outer  courtyard. 
I  was  the  first  to  stand  up:  I  was  sure  it  was 
someone  coming  to  announce  the  recovery  of  the 
body. 

I  stepped  outside  quickly.  I  was  not  mistaken, 
for  I  saw  a  large  crowd  of  people  who  had 
gathered  there  out  of  motives  of  curiosity,  or 
perhaps  compassion.  They  pressed  close  about 
the  litter,  which  was  covered  with  a  sheet.  I 
lifted  a  corner  of  this  and  saw  the  face  of  my 


46  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

faithful  comrade.  His  beard  was  matted  and  his 
eyes  wide  open,  fixed  in  a  last  expression  of 
anguish:  he  had  doubtless  realized  the  danger 
•as  he  struggled  in  the  icy  torrent.  The  little 
black  dog,  in  a  state  of  utter  exhaustion,  his 
tongue  hanging  from  his  mouth,  crouched  by  his 
master's  side.  Strangely  enough,  no  member  of 
the  family  left  the  stable,  though  they  must  all 
have  heard  what  I  had  heard. 

The  Cure  of  Bessans  joined  the  others  and  it 
was  he  who  went  in  to  the  family.  No  one  had 
thought  of  doing  that!  The  stretcher-bearers 
and  their  companions  marched  slowly  in,  carry- 
ing their  burden  with  an  air  of  stolid  indifference. 
It  was  only  when  they  had  deposited  it  within 
the  doorway  that  they  realized  the  tragic  effect 
they  had  produced.  The  family  followed  the 
Cure  in  the  direction  of  the  stretcher.  He  took 
Bina  and  Jean-Marie  each  by  the  hand,  but  re- 
leased them  in  the  presence  of  the  dead.  That 
expression  of  human  piety  which  ordinarily  gave 
an  air  of  severity  to  the  priest's  features  became 
at  once  transfigured,  assuming  a  supernatural 
brightness,  as  if  he  were  celebrating  the  most 
sacred  mysteries.  He  approached  the  stretcher 
and  in  the  presence  of  parents,  wife,  and  children, 
blessed  the  body.  His  words  and  gestures  spread 
a  tranquil  beauty  over  the  tragic  scene.  Madda- 
lena  alone  was  unable  to  restrain  herself,  and 
burst  into  a  fit  of  sobbing.  Such  was  the  custom 


THE  ARC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY          47 

of  her  country,  and  no  one  was  surprised.  Again 
Petronille  fell  to  her  knees.  I  was  standing  near 
her  and  distinctly  heard  her  sigh  rather  than 
articulate : 

"My  little  one!" 

Tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  I  took  her  hand 
and  helped  her  to  her  feet.  She  made  her  way 
into  the  inner  rooms  slowly,  painfully,  there 
to  make  ready  the  bed  that  was  to  receive 
the  remains  of  her  child.  This  done,  the  stretcher* 
bearers  took  up  their  burden  and  laid  it  in  the 
stable,  which  was  spotlessly  clean,  for  the  cows 
were  up  in  the  mountains,  and  only  the  mule 
remained.  One  of  the  great  press-beds  had  been 
opened,  and  white  sheets  showed  through  the 
covering.  On  this  they  laid  the  body.  On  the 
table  they  put  lighted  candles,  and  in  the  holy- 
water  vase  was  a  sprig  of  box-wood.  One  after 
another  the  stretcher-bearers  sprinkled  the  body 
with  holy-water  and  left,  their  assistants  follow- 
ing their  example. 

The  family  having  received  its  dead,  Petro- 
nille laid  out  the  body  with  loving  care,  washing 
the  scarred  face  and  arranging  the  beard  which 
was  covered  with  the  clay  of  the  river-bed.  His 
hands  she  crossed  over  a  chaplet  of  beads,  tied 
his  cravat  in  a  neat  bow,  and  pulled  the  upper 
sheet  over  the  arms.  Meantime  Maddalena  con- 
tinued to  sob,  not  once  offering  to  help  her  aged 
mother-in-law.  I  turned  round  and  caught  sight 


48  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

of  little  Jean-Marie:  lie  was  so  terrified  that  I 
offered  to  take  charge  of  him. 

"Let  me  have  him.  I'll  take  his  brother  and 
sister,  too.  I'll  keep  them  occupied  and  bring 
them  back  in  time  for  the  funeral." 

"You  won't  take  me,"  said  the  independent 
Etienne,  who  was  now  seventeen  and  as  tall  as 
a  man. 

"And  you  won't  take  me  either,"  echoed  the 
quiet  little  Eina,  who  followed  her  brother's  ex- 
ample in  all  things. 

Nor  would  the  youngest  allow  me  to  take  him. 
I  was,  however  able  to  divert  his  attention  by 
promising  to  shoot  my  rifle.  I  took  him  by  the 
hand  and  we  walked  to  the  inn  where  I  had  taken 
a  room. 

I  had  no  intention  of  returning  to  my  mountain 
lodge.  The  hunting  season  was  practically  over 
and  besides,  I  felt  I  owed  it  to  the  family  not 
to  desert  them  in  their  hour  of  need. 

Claude's  death  was  purely  an  accident.  I  was 
in  no  doubt  as  to  that.  After  selling  his  chamois 
he  had  dined  at  the  inn  and  probably  wined  too 
well  by  way  of  celebrating  the  conclusion  of  a 
satisfactory  bargain.  And  then  the  storm  had 
broken.  He  had  waited  until  the  worst  was  over 
and  set  out — after  midnight.  Perhaps  the  wind 
had  blown  out  his  lantern  and  Claude,  a  little 
unsteady  on  his  legs,  had  lost  his  way  and  fallen 


THE  ARC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY         49 

into  the  stream.  That  was  how  I  reconstructed 
the  catastrophe. 

But  the  people  of  Bonneval  were  unwilling  to 
accept  this  version :  they  admitted  he  had  sold  his 
chamois — twenty  sous  a  pound  was  the  price: 
three  Napoleons  in  all.  But  it  was  remembered 
that  he  was  quite  sober — his  sobriety  was  even 
remarked  by  his  friends.  He  had  seemed  anx- 
ious to  start  off  immediately  for  Bessans,  whence 
he  would  push  on  again  up  to  La  Lombarde  to 
be  in  time  for  the  morning's  hunt.  "I've  prom- 
ised," he  had  said.  He  had  been  vexed  at  the 
delay  occasioned  by  the  storm  and  the  moment 
rain  and  wind  had  abated  set  forth  with  his  dog 
and  mule.  As  regards  his  lantern,  it  was  no 
wind  that  blew  that  out:  it  was  found  by  the 
roadside,  smashed  to  bits. 

"Now  that's  a  sample  of  your  Maurienne  imag- 
ination," I  thought  to  myself.  ''They  are  not 
satisfied  to  accept  the  hypothesis  of  an  accident ; 
they  suspect  crime  in  everything." 

And  yet,  as  I  busied  myself  with  the  affairs  of 
the  family  and  made  preparations  for  the  fune- 
ral, I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  glancing 
now  and  then  at  the  body  of  my  dead  companion 
and  examining  his  face  with  a  certain  attention. 
During  one  of  these  brief  examinations  I  detected 
on  the  neck  a  few  very  faint  marks ;  I  bent  over, 
untied  the  cravat,  loosened  the  collar,  and  was 
shocked  to  discover  more  marks,  unmistakable 


50  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

finger  marks.  Was  is  possible  that  Claude  had 
been  strangled? 

Old  Petronille  and  Maddalena  had  followed 
every  movement  I  made  without  uttering  a  sound. 
The  older  woman  was  apprehensive,  the  younger 
outraged. 

"We  must  summon  the  mayor,"  I  said 
brusquely. 

"The  law  won't  bring  him  to  life  again,"  said 
the  bereaved  mother. 

"Let  him  be,"  agreed  the  wife,  and  went  on 
with  her  lamentations. 

I  understood  them  both  and  sympathized  with 
the  grief  of  the  one  and  the  outraged  feelings  of 
the  other.  The  endless  lawsuits  in  which  Jean- 
Pierre  had  engaged  were  of  interest  to  no  one 
but  himself:  to  his  family  they  meant  nothing 
but  unhappiness  and  debts.  It  is  not  without  good 
reason  that  women  fear  lawyers,  for  they  know 
intuitively  that  the  weight  of  the  law  always  falls 
on  the  weakest,  that  it  pries  into  their  past,  dis- 
covering evidence  of  evil  intentions,  suspicious 
relationships  and  dark  deeds,  thus  compromising 
them  under  pretence  of  safeguarding  their  inter- 
ests. I  am  too  well  acquainted  with  criminal  pro- 
cedure not  to  understand  the  instinctive  horror 
these  women  felt.  But,  after  all,  if  Claude  had 
been  murdered,  was  it  not  my  duty  to  see  to  it 
that  his  murderer  was  punished? 

Meantime  Jean-Pierre  drew  near.    He  stood  up 


THE  ARC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY          51 

to  his  full  height  and  assumed  his  most  dignified 
air.  He  had  been  following  the  scene  from  a 
distance. 

" Monsieur  1'Avocat,  you  are  right,"  he  said 
peremptorily,  "he  can't  be  buried  without  an 
Jnquest.  The  mayor  must  be  sent  for." 

I  made  off  at  once,  and  the  mayor,  who  shared 
my  suspicions,  telegraphed  on  my  advice  to  the 
district  court  at  Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne.  After 
which,  and  again  on  my  advice,  he  did  what  the 
peasants,  owing  to  a  fine  feeling  of  delicacy,  had 
kept  him  from  doing:  went  through  Claude's 
pockets.  His  search  revealed  many  devices  neces- 
sary for  a  life  in  the  mountains :  a  knife,  a  leather 
drinking-cup,  scissors,  a  thimble,  a  steel  case  full 
of  needles,  string,  and  the  like,  and  finally  the 
sixty  francs  he  had  received  from  the  sale  of  the 
chamois,  less  three  francs  which  he  had  evidently 
spent  at  the  inn.  The  smallness  of  this  sum  was 
sufficient  proof  that  my  beater  had  not  been  drunk 
enough  to  affect  him.  If  murder  it  was,  the 
motive  could  not  have  been  robbery. 

These  facts  once  established,  there  was  nothing 
left  to  do  but  to  put  the  body  in  a  coffin,  but  the 
mayor  refused  to  permit  burial;  the  District  At- 
torney, who  had  to  come  from  some  distance, 
could  not  arrive  until  the  following  morning,  and 
the  funeral  was  therefore  postponed  until  the 
day  after  that. 

The  Attorney's  physician  and  the  Examining 


52  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

Judge  were  in  no  doubt  whatsoever  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  marks  I  had  discovered:  Claude 
Couvert  had  been  strangled,  and  the  hand  that 
strangled  him  was  an  exceptionally  strong  one. 
For  a  while  after  strangulation  the  water  had 
attenuated  the  marks  of  ecchymosis,  but  these 
had  returned  shortly  after  with  unmistakable 
clearness.  The  Judge  took  my  deposition,  which 
was  of  little  use  to  him  in  furnishing  a  clue,  for 
I  could  not  name  anyone  who  was  on  bad  terms 
with  Claude.  Perhaps  there  might  have  been 
some  poacher,  jealous  of  Claude's  exploits,  or  the 
marked  preference  I  showed  for  him?  I  recalled 
the  laughter  and  the  equivocal  remarks  of  the 
beaters  up  at  the  chalet  whenever  I  referred  to 
Claude 's  passing  the  night  at  Bonneval. 

The  funeral  was  an  imposing  ceremony,  for 
news  of  Claude's  death  had  spread  throughout 
the  Valley.  The  entire  population  of  Bessans 
was  present,  and  many  had  come  from  Bonneval 
and  even  from  Lanslevillard.  Folk  from  the  lit- 
tle mountain  hamlets,  Pierre-Grosse  and  Averole, 
had  come  down  on  asses  and  mules,  as  they  were 
wont  to  go  to  religious  festivals. 

"The  murderer  must  be  there  among  all  those 
people,"  said  the  Judge  to  me  in  a  whisper  as 
he  saw  the  vast  assemblage. 

"Unless,"  I  returned,  "he  has  gone  over  the 
mountains  into  Italy." 

"He  might  do  that  if  he  were  a  thief,  but  if  it 


THE  ARC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY         53 

was  revenge,  he  wouldn't.  A  Mauriennais  would 
be  too  proud  to  run  away  if  he  considered  he 
had  merely  exercized  his  right." 

"But  he  won't  give  himself  up." 

"Sooner  or  later  every  criminal  is  discovered. 
That  has  been  my  experience.  Joseph  de  Maistre 
is  absolutely  right." 

I  knew  the  passage  he  referred  to,  and  more 
than  once  during  my  legal  career  I  had  pondered 
over  it.  On  my  return  to  Chambery  I  opened  a 
copy  of  the  Soirees  de  Saint-Petersbourg,  and 
turned  to  this  sentence:  "It  is  an  invariable  fact 
that  there  is  on  earth  a  universal  and  invisible 
order  for  the  temporal  punishment  of  crime.  I 
must  once  again  repeat  that  criminals  escape  the 
hand  of  justice  much  less  frequently  than  is  com- 
monly believed,  for  their  discovery  is  often  a 
result  merely  of  the  application  of  a  theory  or 
else  of  the  infinite  precautions  taken  by  the  cul- 
prit to  escape  discovery.  There  is  often  in  the 
circumstances  surrounding  the  discovery  of  the 
cleverest  criminals  an  element  so  unexpected,  so 
surprising,  so  unforseeable,  that  those  who  are 
called  upon  to  deal  in  matters  of  this  sort  come 
to  believe  that  the  dispensers  of  human  justice 
are  endowed  with  superhuman  powers." 

Meantime  I  left  the  Examining  Judge  to  make 
his  professional  investigation  and  went  to  join 
the  family.  I  insisted  on  considering  myself  one 
of  them,  and  took  my  place  at  their  side  during 


54  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

the  funeral.  In  the  procession  I  was  directly  be- 
hind the  group  comprising  the  father,  the  two 
sons  and  the  brother  of  Claude.  Old  Jean-Pierre 
walked  with  head  erect;  his  face  was  the  image 
of  despair,  but  he  was  doing  his  utmost  to  con- 
ceal every  indication  of  senility  and  sorrow  in 
order  to  be  a  credit  to  the  son  who  had  been 
struck  down,  and  to  show  the  world  that  he  was 
himself  quite  able  to  punish  the  murderer.  There 
was  no  pose  in  his  magnificently  paternal  man- 
ner: it  was  simply  the  affirmative  gesture  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  hold  his  own  and  stand  firmly 
upon  his  rights.  The  children,  giving  in  to  their 
feelings  in  a  more  natural  manner,  wept  with  the 
women ;  for  Claude  had  been  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  house  with  his  never-wearying  vivacity,  his 
joyous  grimaces,  and  his  jokes.  Benoit,  who  had 
come  down  from  the  mountain  for  the  day  was  as 
usual  silent  and  impenetrable.  But  I  could  see 
that  under  his  mask  he  was  deeply  moved,  and 
I  was  sorry  I  had  supected  him  of  jealousy. 

The  women  gathered  together  in  a  group  at 
one  side.  Maddalena  had  shrieked  so  loudly  that 
it  was  necessary  to  leave  her  at  home  for  fear 
she  would  interrupt  the  service.  But  Petronille 
had  courageously  marched  in  the  procession, 
holding  little  Eina  by  the  hand.  She  bore  her 
grief  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  exactly  as  she 
was  used  to  perform  the  tasks  of  her  every-day 
existence. 


THE  ARC  GIVES  UP  THE  BODY          55 

When  we  had  reached  the  church  and  stood 
facing  the  entrance  I  turned  round  to  see  that 
mass  of  human  beings,  a  solid  phalanx  in  black, 
marching  up  the  steep  proclivity.  The  women, 
in  their  long^  trailing  gowns  and  black  head- 
dresses, reminded  me  of  nuns  in  a  solemn  pro- 
cession. There  was  no  sign  of  a  colored  ribbon 
even  among  the  young  girls.  Like  the  mourners 
of  antiquity  these  women  occasionally  uttered  a 
prolonged  wail  like  the  wail  of  the  night-owl. 

The  next  day  I  returned  to  Chambery,  but 
before  I  left  I  made  Jean-Pierre  promise  to  keep 
me  informed  of  any  new  developments. 


CHAPTER  HI 

OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE 

DURING  the  autumn  and  winter  following  the 
murder  I  received  two  or  three  visits  from  Jean- 
Pierre  Convert ;  but  he  brought  me  no  new  facts 
regarding  the  investigation  following  the  inquest 
which  was,  it  appeared,  the  usual  perfunctory  for- 
mality. I  wondered,  as  I  took  note  of  his  altered 
expression,  his  red  face  and  watery  eyes,  whether 
he  had  not  taken  advantage  of  these  visits  to 
leave  home  in  order  to  carouse  as  much  as  he 
liked?  Of  course  he  had  always  been  fond  of 
wine,  but  he  carried  his  drink  as  every  good 
Savoyard  prides  himself  on  doing,  and  never  got 
really  drunk.  But  now  the  old  man  seemed  to 
have  succumbed. 

"How  goes  it  up  in  your  part  of  the  country, 
Jean-Pierre?" 

"Oh,  same  as  usual,  but  I've  come  about  the 
old  woman." 

"Is  Petronille  sick?" 

"Not  sick  exactly.  She  spits  blood.  Seems 
worn  out.  It's  her  grief.  It's  killing  her." 

The  old  man  was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to 
leave  home.  When  one  reaches  a  certain  age  one 
finds  it  increasingly  difficult  to  bear  the  burdens 
of  others. 

56 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  57 

One  day  I  went  to  Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne  on 
a  case,  and  I  asked  the  Judge  there,  Fonclair — 
who  was  just  a  little  too  much  interested  in  local 
history  to  be  a  good  judge — whether  he  had  dis- 
covered any  new  clues.  It  was  just  as  I  had 
foreseen.  The  court  had  delved  into  Claude's 
past  life,  in  much  the  same  way  as  the  magistrate 
had  gone  through  his  pockets.  It  seems  that 
several  years  ago  he  had  made  love  to  some  girl 
in  Bonneval  and  probably  had  a  child  by  her. 
Probably,  I  say,  but  this  was  by  no  means  certain, 
for  she  was  not  a  vestal;  certain  it  is  that  many 
men  had  had  relations  with  her.  She  married 
later  and  her  husband  had  legitimatized  the 
child.  Could  the  belated  jealousy  of  this  man  be 
seized  upon  as  a  valid  clue?  The  court  had  in- 
deed followed  it  up  for  a  time  and  then  dropped 
it:  the  fellow  was  too  simple-minded,  and  his 
wife  ruled  him  with  an  iron  hand.  He  even  had 
no  doubts  regarding  the  paternity  of  the  child, 
and  was  known  to  be  peaceable  and  friendly  on 
all  occasions.  And  yet  this  long-forgotten  story 
occasioned  more  gaiety  on  the  part  of  my  beaters 
than  had  my  announcement  of  Claude's  trip  to 
Bonneval.  Such  tales  are  very  slow  to  start  in 
these  regions,  but  they  die  hard. 

The  Judge,  realizing  that  he  could  not  discover 
anything  particularly  discreditable  to  the  victim's 
moral  character,  had  turned  his  attention  to 
that  little  secret  world  of  smuggling  and 


58  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

poaching,  a  world  into  which,  an  outsider  may 
enter   only  at  the   risk   of  his   life.     But  the 
judge   knew   this   world,    every   by-path   in  it: 
he  had  crossed  the   frontier  over  passes   that 
were  ordinarily  considered  impossible;  he  knew 
its    secret   hiding-places,  was  intimate  with  its 
manners   and  customs,  and  its  code  of  honor, 
and  consequently,  he  understood  its  laws   and 
its   vengeances.     The   investigation   was    made 
with  infinite  precaution  and  tact.     Claude,   of 
course,  knew  that  world  and  frequented  every 
nook  and  corner  of  it:  he  hunted  chamois  out  of 
season  and  knew  where  to  sell  his  game  at  the 
highest  price.    He  was  invaluable  as  a  guide  be- 
cause of  his  inexhaustible  knowledge  of  every 
part  of  the  mountains.    He  had  friends  and  allies 
at  Ceres ole  in  Italy  and  without  doubt  he  trans- 
ported contraband  goods  to  that  place.    Possibly 
he  had  quarrelled  with  one  of  his  accomplices? 
Maybe  he  had  blabbed  and  compromised  a  pal! 
The  court  had  even  decided  to  arrest  one  of  the 
most  notorious  smugglers,  a  man  who  had  once 
been  sentenced  because  of  a  row  at  the  inn  where 
he  had  put  out  the  eye  of  a  customs  officer. 
Pierre-Paul  Poing  of  Bonneval  was  celebrated 
for  his  physical  strength  and  his  ugly  temper. 
He  was  rather  irritated  when  they  came  to  arrest 
him,  so  that  it  was  necessary  to  send  a  whole 
squad  of  police  to  carry  him  off.    What  particu- 
larly aroused  his  ire  was  that  he  should  be  sus- 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  59 

pected  of  committing  a  crime  in  the  dead  of  night 
—a  cowardly  act!  His  innocence  was  soon  estab- 
lished, and  he  was  released. 

"I  did  not  bring  charges  against  him,"  ex- 
plained the  Judge. 

"What  sort  of  charges  could  you  have 
brought?" 

"Resisting  the  police;  assault  and  battery." 

"But  he  was  innocent!" 

"That's  no  reason.  Do  you  think  we  arrest 
only  the  guilty?  You  can't  know  until  afterward. 
Besides,  we  had  to  do  something  for  the  sake  of 
the  lawyers." 

"Thanks;  your  blunders  are  quite  sufficient. 
Meantime,  have  you  any  fresh  clues?" 

"Yes,  a  better  one.  I'm  very  glad  you  came. 
I  want  to  ask  you  a  few  questions.  How  many 
beaters  did  you  have  when  you  went  hunting  at 
La  Lombarde?" 

"Four,  not  counting  Claude  Couvert." 

"Weren't  they  all  jealous  of  him?" 

"Yes,  but  they  were  very  decent  fellows." 

"A  judge  takes  no  account  of  'decent  fellows.' 
All  that's  necessary  is  to  arrest  one  of  them  and 
find  out  a  few  things  about  his  private  life.  That'll 
bring  to  light  any  amount  of  moral  turpitude." 

"You're  a  dangerous  man." 

"No  man  is  more  dangerous  than  a  judge." 

"So  I  see.  But  may  I  point  out  that  while 
moral  turpitude,  as  you  phrase  it,  is  a  human  at- 


60  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

tribute,  it  does  not  bear  the  same  relation  to 
society  at  large  as  does  actual  crime. ' ' 

"But  it's  only  a  step  from  that  to  crime." 

"A  very  long  step — often  a  step  that  is  prac- 
tically impossible  to  take." 

"Impossible1?  I  have  just  read  Joseph  de  Mais- 
tre  and  I  see  he  condoned  judicial  errors  on  the 
ground  that  when  justice  was  mistaken  the  victim 
in  suffering  punishment  was  thus  expiating  an- 
other, an  unknown  crime." 

"AJi,  but  you  twist  the  author's  meaning.  Ee- 
call  for  a  moment  that  other  passage  you  quoted 
at  Bessans  during  the  funeral,  about  the  universal 
and  visible  order  for  the  temporal  punishment  of 
crime,  and  the  cleverest  criminals  sooner  or  later 
disclosing  their  guilt  by  imprudence." 

"Yes.  Sometimes  they  are  a  long  time  doing 
it,  and  show  no  consideration  for  the  judges. 
That  is  why  they  force  us  to  adopt  any  means  at 
hand." 

"That's  small  consolation  for  the  good,  law- 
abiding  citizens ! ' ' 

"People  don't  properly  understand  the  attitude 
of  judges.  We  work  in  the  dark.  It  is  inevitable 
that  we  should  make  others  suffer." 

"But  you  ought  to  do  your  best  to  minimize 
that  suffering." 

"I  do  my  best,  but  a  magistrate  owes  it  to  him- 
self to  have  an  easy  conscience.  He  must  not 
permit  himself  over-refined  scruples." 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  61 

Judge  Fonclair  is  a  very  able  man,  a  lover  of 
paradox,  and  always  delights  in  showing  off  his 
erudition. 

He  is  endowed  with  sufficient  irony  and  scepti- 
cism to  prevent  his  being  absolutely  stupid,  and 
as  a  result  of  his  vast  experience  he  can  make 
shrewd  guesses.  But  in  the  Convert  case  he  was 
quite  beyond  his  depth,  utterly  at  sea,  as  I  real- 
ized when  he  announced  the  following  hypothesis : 

"Let  us  return  to  our  beaters,"  he  said. 
"Claude  Convert  enjoys  your  confidence.  A  re- 
markable fellow;  knows  all  the  hiding-places  of 
the  chamois ;  is  better  than  all  the  rest  in  discov- 
ering game.  A  wonderful  cook.  In  every  way  a 
keen,  fine,  fearless  fellow.  When  he  is  about, 
everything  runs  smoothly — nothing  is  lacking. 
Every  day  he  entertains  you  with  all  sorts  of 
amusing  rigmaroles.  In  your  little  community  he 
is  by  all  odds  the  favorite.  You  give  him  more 
game  than  the  others." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I've  investigated.  His  four  comrades  begin 
to  rebel;  they  decide  to  get  rid  of  him.  Finally, 
you  make  him  a  present  of  a  fat  young  chamois  at 
a  time  when  the  guests  at  the  inn  are  clamoring 
for  chamois  meat.  He  takes  the  animal  down  to 
Bonneval.  The  gang  chooses  his  executioner,  or 
executioners  as  the  case  may  be.  At  night  he,  or 
they,  slip  away  from  La  Lombarde  and  lie  in 
wait  somewhere  on  the  road  between  Bonneval 


62  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

and  Bessans — between  the  chalets  of  Barmanere 
and  the  bridge  where  the  road  crosses  the  river. 
The  little  dog  of  course  recognizes  the  men,  and 
naturally  doesn't  bark  at  them.  Kemember,  the 
people  at  Barmanere  heard  no  barking!  They 
strangle  Claude  and  throw  his  body  into  the  river. 
Then,  under  cover  of  the  night,  they  return  to  the 
chalet.  The  trip  down  and  back  is  nothing  to 
men  who  are  used  to  the  mountains.  In  the  morn- 
ing they  are  ready  for  the  hunt  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  Who  could  suspect  them?" 

"Well,  you  were  quite  right  when  you  said  that 
a  judge  is  a  dangerous  man!  You've  just  con- 
structed a  more  astonishing  piece  of  fiction  than 
was  ever  conceived  by  a  popular  novelist.  I  admit 
my  beaters  were  jealous  of  Claude,  but  that  was  a 
purely  professional  jealousy — not  the  sort  that 
leads  to  crime.  There  is  no  possible  connection 
between  the  cause  and  the  result  you  imagine.  My 
men  realized  Claude's  superiority,  though  they 
would  not  admit  it  even  to  themselves,  and  they 
might  conceivably  have  gotten  together  to  play  a 
practical  joke  on  him,  but  the  joke  would  have 
gone  no  further  than  sending  him  off  on  a  false 
scent.  So  much  for  the  'morality'  of  my  men. 
And  that  is  enough  for  me.  Let  me  point  out 
that  there  are  any  number  of  material  objections 
to  your  version." 

"For  instance?" 

"First,  the  matter  of  distance.    It's  at  least 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  63 

three  hours'  walk  from  my  chalet  to  Bonneval." 

"But  Claude  evidently  thought  he  could  make 
it — and  even  in  shorter  time ! ' ' 

"Have  patience,  Judge,  Claude  Couvert  left 
between  four  and  five  in  the  afternoon.  He 
intended  to  return  during  the  night.  My  men 
were  all  at  the  chalet  for  dinner,  and  after  din- 
ner I  talked  with  them  about  the  next  day's 
hunt." 

"They're  very  fast  walkers,  you  know!" 

"You  forget  the  storm.  It  broke  out  between 
eight  and  nine  that  night  and  was  particularly 
violent.  Not  even  a  customs  officer  would  think  of 
leaving  his  door  in  such  a  storm.'7 

"These  mountaineers  are  afraid  of  nothing." 

"Note  that  it  was  so  severe  that  Claude  was 
forced  to  remain  at  Bonneval  till  midnight." 

"He  stopped  at  the  inn  because  of  the  mule. 
You  know,  these  peasants  take  better  care  of  their 
animals  than  of  themselves." 

"But  why  do  you  assume  that  the  dog  did  not 
bark?  Naturally,  he  couldn't  be  heard  at  Bar- 
manere  because  of  the  roaring  of  the  river." 

"People  living  near  rivers  become  accustomed 
to  the  sound  and  hear  other  sounds  quite  dis- 
tinctly." 

"You're  very  hard  to  convince.  But  since  you 
won't  otherwise  believe  in  the  innocence  of  my 
men,  let  me  give  you  ono  incontrovertible  proof." 

"Well,  well,  this  sounds  like  a  court  plea.    Let 


64  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

us  have  your  incontrovertible  proof.  I  ask  noth- 
ing better  than  to  believe  it.  I  'm  not  prejudiced. ' ' 

"My  men  did  not  leave  La  Lombarde  at  all  that 
night.  And  my  proof  is  that  if  they  had  gone 
on  this  wild  expedition  their  clothes  would  have 
been  soaked.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  were  quite 
dry." 

"They  might  have  changed?" 

"They  had  no  others." 

"What  do  they  do  when  they  get  wet?" 

"Dry  them  in  the  sun  if  it  shines  again;  other- 
wise, at  the  fire." 

"Well,  I  admit  that  is  a  reason.  Still,  I  would 
like  to  arrest  one  of  them." 

"But  why?" 

"To  make  the  others  talk.  In  these  rural  dis- 
tricts, no  one  opens  his  mouth  until  one  of  them 
is  behind  the  bars." 

"Don't  arrest  anyone.    Take  my  advice." 

*  *  Too  bad !    It 's  really  a  shame ! ' ' 

After  thus  expressing  his  regret  Fonclair  burst 
into  laughter  which  scarcely  concealed  his  rage. 
For  a  moment  I  suspected  that  he  might  have 
been  joking,  but  I  learned  during  the  more  friendly 
conversation  that  followed  that  he  was  in  deadly 
earnest,  and  had  actually  investigated  the  past 
lives  of  my  beaters.  My  statement  alone  had  pre- 
vented his  making  an  arrest.  But  he  believed  me 
implicitly.  So  you  see,  my  trip  to  Saint-Jean-de- 
Maurienne  was  not  in  vain,  for  it  served  to  shield 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  65 

the  innocent.  They  were  of  course  honest  men, 
easily  distinguishable,  the  Judge  notwithstand- 
ing, from  criminals. 

If  I  go  to  such  pains  in  going  over  the  details 
of  this  conversation,  it  is  by  no  means  for  the 
purpose  of  emphasizing  my  role  as  protector  of 
the  innocent.  On  the  contrary,  for  the  false, 
though  ingenious,  hypothesis  of  the  Judge  en- 
abled me  to  make  good  use  of  his  ideas  at  a 
later  time  in  order  to  strengthen  a  totally  dif- 
ferent conviction  that  had  come  to  me. 

During  the  month  of  the  following  February 
some  of  my  friends  at  Chambery  organized  a  ski- 
ing party  through  the  Maurienne.  They  planned 
to  go  by  train  to  Modane  and  then  proceed  by 
sleds  up  the  Valley  of  the  Arc  to  Bonneval  where 
a  chalet-refuge  had  just  been  opened  by  the 
Alpine  Club.  The  return  trip  was  to  be  made 
on  skis :  there  were  wonderful  slopes,  they  knew, 
at  La  Madeleine  above  Lanslevillard.  Though 
I  was  especially  busy  at  the  time  I  joined  the 
party;  two  or  three  days  spent  in  the  open  air 
would  drive  the  legal  cobwebs  from  my  mind.  Be- 
sides, I  could  stop  off  at  Bessans  and  visit  the 
Couverts. 

Those  who  have  never  made  a  sojourn  in  the 
mountains  during  the  winter  can  have  no  concep- 
tion of  their  grandeur.  Some  traveller — I  don't 
know  who  it  was — whose  appetite  for  sensation 
had  lost  its  edge,  declared  that  each  country 


66  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

ought  to  be  visited  during  what  he  called  its  "vio- 
lent" season;  the  Orient  under  the  blasting  heat 
of  midsummer,  the  Scandinavian  countries  in  the 
dead  of  winter,  and  so  on.  This  is  especially  true 
of  the  mountains.  There  the  winter  is  by  no 
means  what  you  might  imagine  it  to  be :  the  sun, 
for  instance,  shines  oftener  than  it  does  on  the 
plains  and  in  the  valleys.  How  many  times  as  I 
sat  in  my  office  at  Chambery  have  my  mountaineer 
clients  pitied  me  because  of  the  fogs  that  con- 
tinually hid  the  sky  from  my  view ! 

"Up  where  we  live,  Monsieur  1'Avocat,  we  have 
clear  weather." 

And  what  crystal  clarity  it  is!  A  horizon  of 
pure  white  and  azure,  not  your  ordinary  white 
and  azure:  the  white  up  there  glistens  like  new 
armor;  luminous,  living,  quickened  into  life  by 
the  blinding  sunlight.  The  snow  bursts  into  clouds 
of  innumerable  diamonds.  And  the  blue!  It  is 
dense  and  yet  light,  deep  and  at  the  same  time 
unbelievably  delicate ;  more  tenuous  than  the  sky 
of  Italy,  and  yet  darker  than  that  of  the  Ile-de- 
France.  Under  this  mantle  of  blue  and  white  the 
mountains  reveal  their  magnificent  outlines,  now 
soft  and  smooth,  now  awful  in  their  rugged 
abruptness.  Under  a  shifting  atmosphere  these 
outlines  at  times  stand  out  in  every  detail,  and 
again  become  attenuated  and  lost  in  the  ever- 
shifting  mists.  The  pines  and  larches,  laden  with 
hoar-frost,  show  touches  of  vivid  green  or  golden 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  67 

brown.  A  church  steeple  in  the  distance  marks 
the  position  of  a  silent  village  tucked  away  in  a 
corner  of  the  valley.  Everywhere  is  the  sweet 
silence  of  a  lonely  monastery.  This  world  of  white 
knows  no  monotony,  since  the  vivid  light  darts 
and  changes  with  each  floating  mist.  The  morn- 
ing is  full  of  golds  and  pinks,  and  you  might 
imagine  you  were  present  at  the  birth  of  some 
Alpine  goddess,  sprung  from  the  glacier,  like 
Venus  rising  from  the  sea.  The  evenings  are  still 
more  beautiful:  there  is  a  profusion  of  soft  tints, 
beginning  with  the  deepest  orange  and  melting 
into  every  variety  of  red — crimson,  carmine,  cop- 
per; and  then  through  all  the  yellows — sulphur, 
saffron,  light  lemon ;  and  at  last  passing  into  the 
violets,  lilacs,  and  mauves.  No  painter  has  ever 
been  able  to  render  this  ever-changing  fusion  of 
colors,  more  delicately  and  subtly  shaded  than 
the  petals  of  roses  and  chrysanthemums. 

But  there  are  other  pleasures  besides  the  visual. 
A  fresh  and  salubrious  wind  caresses  the  face  and 
sends  the  blood  coursing  through  the  body.  There 
is  no  exercise  more  agreeable,  more  voluptuous, 
than  skating  or  skiing,  for  in  these  sports  you 
feel  an  inner  heat  contrasting  pleasantly  with  the 
cold  air.  In  no  other  way  is  it  possible  to  feel 
so  close  to  nature  and  life. 

The  winter  is  by  no  means  a  sad  season  in 
the  mountain  regions.  Think  of  the  long  eve- 
nings indoors!  It  is  then  that  traditions  are 


68  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

handed  down,  one  generation  learning  from  the 
other  the  history  of  the  race  in  the  form  of 
legends,  which  of  course  are  the  truest  sort  of 
history.  It  is  then  that  the  character  is  formed, 
the  soul  shaped,  and  first  love  born.  The  girls 
of  the  Maurienne,  I  may  say,  are  particularly 
pretty. 

We  spent  the  night  at  Lanslebourg  in  order  to 
rest  our  mules.  My  companions  were  anxious 
to  reach  Bonneval  in  time  for  lunch.  "We  started 
out  early  the  next  morning,  but  experienced  some 
difficulty  in  crossing  the  pass  at  La  Madeleine, 
which  lies  between  Lanslevillard  and  Bessans. 
The  trail  had  disappeared  and  our  animals  sank 
into  the  new  snow  up  to  their  bellies.  We  had  to 
dismount  and  pull  the  animals  out. 

We  arrived  at  Bessans  about  noon  atad  decided 
to  eat  there.  After  lunch  my  companions  pro- 
ceeded on  their  way  while  I  remained  behind.  We 
had  agreed  that  they  were  to  call  for  me  on  their 
return.  Meantime  I  engaged  a  room  at  the  inn. 
Now  that  Claude  was  gone,  I  hesitated  to  accept 
the  hospitality  of  the  Couverts,  though  I  pre- 
sented myself  at  the  house  immediately  after  the 
skiing  party  had  left. 

Jean-Pierre's  fears  on  behalf  of  his  wife's 
health  were  by  no  means  unfounded.  When  I 
entered  the  stable  I  saw  Petronille  lying  in  bed, 
her  hands  folded  over  the  sheet,  surrounded  by 
the  animals  in  their  stalls,  and  the  children.  The 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  69 

fact  that  she  had  consented  to  go  to  bed  at  all 
sufficed  to  show  that  there  was  no  hope  of  her 
recovery.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who  posi- 
tively refuse  to  be  sick,  but  when  once  they  are 
stricken,  never  recover.  A  sunbeam  coming  in 
through  one  of  the  windows  illuminated  the  cen- 
ter of  the  scene.  I  can  still  see  the  mule  and  the 
broad  haunches  of  the  cows ;  I  even  remember  that 
the  stalls  had  not  been  cleaned  out,  an  ominous 
detail,  for  I  knew  that  no  house,  as  a  rule,  was 
cleaner  than  this.  The  cows  still  wore  their  bells 
and  from  time  to  time  their  slow  movements  sent 
out  silvery  sounds  on  two  or  three  notes,  mingling 
pleasantly  with  the  conversation  or  startling  the 
silence.  A  hen,  making  her  way  into  forbidden 
territory,  paraded  back  and  forth,  picking  up 
crumbs  and  grain.  Coal,  the  little  black  dog,  was 
curled  up  in  a  corner  sleeping  a  troubled  sleep. 
He  occasionally  uttered  a  little  yelp  and  relapsed 
into  silence.  Perhaps  he  felt  the  presence  of  the 
Unknown  Guest. 

The  dying  woman  was  cared  for  by  her  grand- 
son, Etienne,  and  by  little  Eina,  who  supplied  her 
with  sugar-water  and  rum,  and  occasionally  gave 
her  a  teaspoonful  of  Bonjean  Elixir,  the  universal 
Savoyard  remedy  for  the  "restoration  of  strength 
and  immediate  relief  of  all  pain."  They  stood 
with  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  endeavoring  to  guess 
her  wishes,  never  leaving  her  side  for  a  moment. 
I  felt  a  genuine  admiration  for  this  tall  youth  of 


70  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

seventeen  or  eighteen,  as  tenderly  attentive  as  a 
young  nurse  learning  her  profession.  At  that 
time  I  perceived  some  indication  of  what  his 
future  was  to  be :  there  was  in  him  none  of  the 
awkwardness  or  boorishness  of  the  typical  coun- 
tryman. He  was  delicate  and  refined  in  manner. 
Poor  boy!  What  an  ordeal  he  was  to  undergo 
before  entering  the  priesthood!  His  sister,  who 
had  already  attached  herself  to  him  like  a  servant 
and  sought  to  emulate  him  in  every  respect,  was 
also  to  seek  refuge  later  on  from  the  world.  Jean- 
Pierre  was  seated  at  the  table.  He  was  showing 
Jean-Marie,  the  youngest  of  his  grandsons,  how 
to  carve  wood  after  the  fashion  of  Clapier  and 
Vincendet,  local  sculptors  of  a  bygone  day,  into 
the  semblance  of  saints,  soldiers,  and  devils.  Be- 
fore him  on  the  table  was  a  jug  which  I  thought 
at  first  was  full  of  wine  or  cider.  I  was  wrong, 
for  it  contained  mountain  thistles  which  the  old 
man  had  gathered  in  order  to  put  beneath  a  lit- 
tle photograph  of  Claude  that  hung  on  the  wall. 
His  memory  was  sacred  in  this  house,  and  its 
celebration  was  a  religious  cult. 

I  inquired  after  Maddalena:  she  had  taken 
charge  of  the  kitchen  as  well  as  of  the  entire 
household.  As  for  Benoit,  I  could  hear  him 
sawing  wood  in  the  wood-shed:  the  cold  weather 
would  necessitate  a  large  supply  of  ash  and  beech, 
pine  and  larch. 

After  paying  my  respects  to  the  others  I  went 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  71 

to  Petronille,  uncertain  whether  my  speaking 
would  agitate  her.  But  Etienne  reassured  me 
with  these  words,  which  later  assumed  a  meaning 
he  could  not  possibly  have  intended : 

"You  may  speak,  Monsieur.  She  hears  every- 
thing, sees  everything,  knows  everything." 

Thank  God,  she  did  not  know  everything! 

Her  quickly  failing  eyes  had  already  taken  ac- 
count of  my  presence.  She  greeted  me  and  called 
me  by  name:  "How  do  you  do,  Monsieur  Char- 
lieu,"  and  seemed  anxious  to  know  if  I  were  well 
lodged  and  nourished.  She  received  me  in  the 
manner  of  a  great  lady  or  rather  with  the  cere- 
monious gravity  which  distinguishes  peasant  hos- 
pitality in  this  region.  I  suggested  the  advisa- 
bility of  sending  to  Lanslebourg  for  a  doctor,  but 
she  politely  refused.  I  remember  her  exact  reply : 

"No  thank  you,  except  for  accidents,  we  can  die 
without  help  from  anyone." 

There  was  no  trace  of  malice  in  this.  The  "acci- 
dent" she  referred  to  was,  of  course,  Claude's 
accident.  During  the  course  of  my  life  I  have 
seen  many  people  face  death  with  courage  and 
even  contempt,  but  only  on  one  other  occasion  with 
such  serenity.  That  was  an  old  friend  of  my 
father's  a  man  of  unshaken  faith,  a  judge  who, 
after  his  retirement,  had  devoted  his  lively  and 
energetic  mind  to  the  study  of  theology.  When  he 
realized  that  his  last  moment  was  at  hand  he  said 
with  the  utmost  coolness  and  detachment:  "I 


72  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

have  always  wondered  just  how  the  soul  takes 
flight  from  the  body.  Now  I  shall  know." 

The  knowledge  he  was  about  to  acquire  is  paid 
for,  however,  only  with  life.  Human  beings  as  a 
rule  do  not  approach  this  knowledge  without 
agony,  but  Petronille,  happy  in  her  ignorance,  was 
not  troubled.  She  went  out  to  meet  death  very 
much  as  she  was  wont  to  go  back  and  forth 
through  the  house  noiselessly  and  discreetly,  per- 
forming each  task  at  its  appointed  time  and  per- 
forming it  well.  Of  her  own  accord  she  asked 
for  the  priest  and  his  sacraments,  and  preparing 
to  receive  into  her  house  the  symbols  of  God, 
she  ordered  the  animals  curried,  the  room  set  in 
order,  and  a  clean  cloth,  two  candlesticks,  and 
new  candles,  to  be  laid  on  the  table.  While  Bina 
went  to  fetch  the  white  cloth  the  old  lady  asked 
the  others  to  take  down  two  clean  sheets.  The 
use  to  which  these  would  be  put  was  unmistak- 
able. These  preliminaries  over,  she  sent  little 
Jean-Marie  for  Monsieur  le  Cure,  then  lay  back 
and  made  no  further  reply  to  us,  as  if  she  had 
already  begun  to  accustom  herself  to  another  ex- 
istence. 

The  priest,  clothed  in  his  surplice,  and  preceded 
by  his  assistant,  showed  not  the  slightest  aston- 
ishment at  seeing  his  parishioner  in  the  presence 
of  the  animals.  He  took  the  holy  Elements,  pro- 
nounced the  sacramental  words  and,  approaching 
the  bed,  held  the  Host  to  the  lips  of  the  dying 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  73 

woman,  who  received  it  with  closed  eyes,  in  a  sort 
of  ecstasy,  as  if  she  were  offering  up  her  very 
soul.  The  face  of  Petronille,  attenuated  by  the 
ravages  of  an  incurable  malady,  was  now  trans- 
figured and  spiritualized.  It  bore  a  striking  re- 
semblance to  those  crude  rustic  madonnas  you 
may  see,  painted  by  the  local  artists,  on  the  walls 
of  the  Chapel  of  St.  Anthony  at  Bessans  or  of  St. 
Sebastian  at  Lanslevillard.  Because  of  this  re- 
semblance I  almost  expected  to  see  a  halo  round 
her  head,  as  she  lay  there  receiving  the  commun- 
ion. The  cows,  unaccustomed  to  the  unusual  pro- 
ceedings, shook  their  little  bells  as  if  they  were 
announcing  to  the  faithful  the  moment  of  the 
Elevation  of  the  Host. 

The  picture  before  me,  a  spectacle  as  old  as 
time,  inevitably  called  to  mind  the  birth  of  Jesus 
in  the  stable,  in  the  presence  of  an  ass  and  an 
ox  and  humble  shepherds.  Jesus  in  His  turn  had 
now  come  into  the  presence  of  one  of  His  flock 
and  behold,  this  stable  was  transfigured  and  was 
become  the  House  of  God. 

The  sacred  ointments  were  applied  to  the  eyes, 
the  ears,  the  nostrils,  and  the  mouth  that  was  now 
shrunk  to  a  small  and  delicate  bloodless  line,  to 
her  hands  that  were  worn  and  cracked  by  con- 
stant use,  to  her  feet  that  for  so  many  years  had 
taken  her  nowhere  outside  the  house  save  to 
church.  By  the  application  of  this  Unction  her 
human  errors  were  forgiven,  while  the  ointment 


74  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

symbolized  the  consecration  of  her  soul.  Actu- 
ally, however,  her  soul  was  offered  up  to  God  in 
expiation.  In  expiation,  mark  you,  for  this  poor 
woman  had  asked,  while  still  in  full  possession  of 
her  mental  powers  and  before  the  lapse  into  un- 
.consciousness,  to  receive  Extreme  Unction.  I 
am  positive  that  she  realized  the  efficacy  of  this 
last  sacrament.  She  received  it  with  such  fervor, 
with  a  self-abandonment  so  complete,  that  we 
feared  the  effort  would  precipitate  instant  death. 

After  speaking  a  few  words  of  consolation  and 
hope,  the  priest  left,  and  for  a  long  time  Petro- 
nille  lay  prostrate.  Finally  she  called  to  her  bed- 
side her  son  Benoit  and  Claude's  wife,  Madda- 
lena.  These  two  had  stood  apart  during  the  last 
scene,  busied  with  their  domestic  duties.  Food 
must  be  prepared  and  wood  cut  even  in  such  sol- 
emn hours.  They  had  been  quietly  performing 
their  duties,  relieving  the  others  of  petty  details 
and  allowing  them  to  care  for  the  dying  woman. 
They  answered  her  summons  and  stood  facing 
her  on  either  side  of  the  bed,  awkward  and  ill  at 
ease.  I  was  astonished  by  their  pallor  and  the 
trembling  of  their  hands.  Occupied  as  they  had 
been  in  other  parts  of  the  house,  they  were  now 
doubtless  shocked  by  the  rapid  progress  of  Pe- 
tronille's  malady.  •  She  appeared  not  to  see  them. 

"I  am  here,"  said  Benoit. 

Then  she  opened  her  eyes  which  had  that  ter- 
rifying expression  we  see  in  the  dying,  who  ap- 


OUR  LORD  IN  THE  STABLE  75 

pear  to  be  making  a  final  effort  to  cling  to  this  life 
while  their  vision  is  already  fixed  upon  a  world 
beyond. 

She  managed  to  look  them  both  straight  in  the 
eyes,  but  I  noticed  that  they  could  not  sustain  her 
glance,  and  turned  their  heads  aside.  I  admit  that 
even  I,  an  outsider,  could  scarcely  have  borne  that 
look  without  flinching.  Her  face  was  contorted 
and  it  seemed  for  a  moment  as  though  the  pain 
would  make  her  scream — a  woman  who  had  never 
uttered  a  complaint.  She  lifted  an  arm  but  had 
to  let  it  fall,  for  she  was  in  a  state  bordering  upon 
prostration.  The  next  moment  she  took  Benoit's 
hand  in  an  unexpectedly  firm  grip,  and  tried  with 
her  other  hand  to  take  hold  of  Maddalena's.  Her 
son  and  daughter-in-law  did  not  immediately  re- 
spond to  Petronille's  unspoken  desire.  The  hand 
which  had  sought  Maddalena's  fell  back  power- 
less on  the  sheet. 

What  had  that  gesture  meant?  I  imagined  that 
before  leaving  her  family  she  had  been  seized 
with  a  desire  to  pronounce  some  benediction  of 
peace,  addressing  herself  especially  to  her  son 
and  to  Claude's  widow,  on  account  of  the  hos- 
tility that  existed  between  the  two.  This  was  what 
I  made  of  the  scene  at  the  time.  Now  that  I 
know,  this  supreme  effort  of  a  woman  who  had 
divined  only  a  part  of  the  truth,  who  had  striven 
on  the  brink  of  the  grave  to  effect  an  impossible 
reparation,  now  assumes  a  grandeur  comparable, 


76  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

I  think,  only  to  the  miracles  of  the  Saints.  What 
tortures  would  she  not  have  suffered  if  she  had 
guessed  all!  I  left  the  stable  full  of  the  deepest 
veneration  for  her.  Every  detail  of  that  scene 
is  still  vivid  to  me.  Even  now,  after  so  many 
years,  I  am  stirred  whenever  I  think  of  her,  be- 
cause I  have  learned  how  far  the  fear  of  sin  and 
the  love  of  God  can  penetrate  into  the  soul  of 
a  woman. 

She  spoke  few  words  after  that,  but  though  her 
mouth  was  closed  she  continued  to  make  the  sign 
of  the  cross  with  her  gnarled  hand. 

She  did  not  die  until  two  days  later.  I  had  left 
the  evening  before,  promising  to  return  in  the 
autumn  to  hunt  chamois.  Either  Benoit  or 
Etienne,  who  was  now  a  fine  stalwart  lad,  would 
come  with  me.  Someone  is  always  found  to  take 
the  place  of  the  dead. 


CHAPTEE  IV 

A  BELATED  VOCATION 

ELEVEN  months  had  passed  since  the  death  of 
Claude  Convert,  and  six  since  that  of  his  mother. 

The  hunting  season  was  about  to  open,  I  had 
made  the  usual  preparations  and  even  written  to 
Bessans  to  make  sure  that  either  Benoit  or 
Etienne  would  be  with  me  at  the  chalet,  when  I 
received  a  visit  from  Jean-Pierre,  who  had  not 
left  the  mountains  since  his  wife's  death. 

"Well,  here  you  are  at  last!"  I  exclaimed  as 
the  old  man  entered  my  office.  "I  haven't  seen 
you  for  ages.  What  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself?  You  have  brought  me  no  new  suits, 
done  no  traveling,  and  evidently  managed  to  keep 
away  from  the  bottle !  You  must  be  growing  old, 
Jean-Pierre!" 

As  I  joked  with  him  I  was  shocked  by  the 
marked  change  in  his  face  and  manner.  This 
proud  and  majestic  peasant,  a  born  leader  and 
master  who  walked  with  head  erect,  wore  his 
clothes  in  the  grand  manner  and  always  shaved 
with  the  most  scrupulous  care,  now  stood  before 
me  a  bent  and  pathetic  old  man.  This  venerable 
patriarch,  for  years  an  absolute  master  in  his  own 

77 


78  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

home  and  lord  of  his  lands,  only  too  ready  to  do 
battle  in  defence  of  his  boundaries,  his  rights  of 
way,  his  water  franchises,  eager  to  exercise  every 
privilege  to  its  utmost  limit,  was  now  simply  an 
old  man,  whose  clothes  hung  like  bags  from  his 
shrunken  body.  His  beard  was  unkempt,  his  nose 
red,  his  eyes  dull.  He  was  perhaps  sixty-five,  cer- 
tainly not  a  day  over  seventy,  but  he  carried  his 
years  as  if  they  had  been  an  imponderable  burden 
that  was  crushing  him.  To  what  was  I  to  at- 
tribute this  change?  To  sorrow,  or  to  drink!  At 
first  I  put  it  down  to  drink  because  of  the  color  of 
his  face,  and  more  especially  to  the  trembling  of 
his  hands.  But  those  shifting  pathetic  eyes,  that 
seemed  almost  to  express  fear,  no  longer  looked 
straight  at  one,  and  I  suspected  the  presence  of 
Some  agony  undermining  his  spiritual  being. 
Doubtless  the  double  loss  of  son  and  wife  was  the 
cause  of  this  tragic  deterioration.  He  was  like  a 
magnificent  tree,  decayed  and  ready  to  fall  before 
'the  first  wind. 

I  inquired  after  the  whole  family,  and  his  re- 
port was  in  every  way  satisfactory.  Benoit  was 
up  in  the  Averole  Valley  tending  the  cattle. 
Etienne,  he  said,  would  be  my  companion  at  La 
Lombarde.  This  lad  was  as  quick  as  his  father, 
as  ready  with  his  hands,  and  as  untiring.  But 
his  knowledge  of  the  haunts  and  habits  of  ani- 
mals was  by  no  means  as  thorough.  And,  last 
but  not  least,  he  lacked  his  father's  sense  of  fun. 


A  BELATED  VOCATION  79 

" Sorrow  is  also  affecting  him,"  said  the  old 
man. 

"He  will  get  over  it;  young  people  do." 
' '  Oh,  he  has  the  mind  of  a  much  older  man. ' ' 
In  this  last  statement  I  recognized  the  Jean- 
Pierre  I  had  always  known,  a  keen  observer,  able 
to  reduce  his  judgments  to  the  most  concise  and 
exact  form.    His  mind  had  remained  unaffected. 
He  lost  no  time  in  explaining  the  purpose  of  his 
visit.    He  had  come  to  consult  me  about  the  dis- 
position of  his  worldly  goods  and  asked  me  what 
he  ought  to  do. 

"You  have  two  children,  Jean-Pierre." 
"I  did  have  four.    Now  I  have  only  one." 
"Legally  you  have  two:  Claude's  interests  are 
represented  by  his  children.    You  have  therefore 
the  right  to  dispose  of  only  a  third  of  your  prop- 
erty." 

"Then  I'll  make  a  will  in  favor  of  my  grand- 
son Etienne.  You  see,  Benoit  is  single." 

It  was  quite  natural.  In  this  way  he  had  pro- 
vided for  the  future  of  the  family  and  at  the 
same  time  perpetuated  the  custom  of  primo- 
geniture. 

"But,"  I  objected,  "Benoit  is  not  old;  he  may 
marry  yet." 
"Oh,  no." 

This  "No"  came  from  him  in  a  flash  as  if 
the  old  man  were  indignantly  protesting  against 
the  bare  possibility.  I  took  it  that  having  once 


80  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

made  up  his  mind,  he  was  unwilling  to  alter  it. 

"But  why  give  to  Etienne  at  the  expense  of 
Bina  and  Jean-Marie!" 

"Oh,  Eina " 

Eina  of  course  was  only  a  girl.  In  the  country 
girls  are  not  reckoned  when  you  count  the  chil- 
dren. But  little  Jean-Marie?  Jean-Pierre 
looked  at  me  and  upon  my  word  I  think  he  was 
afraid. 

"Etienne  is  the  oldest,"  he  declared  as  if  he 
were  laying  down  the  law. 

I  advised  him  not  to  dispose  of  his  property 
before  he  died,  sound  advice,  by  the  way.  I  have 
too  often  beheld  the  spectacle  of  an  old  man 
despised,  abandoned,  and  destitute,  the  moment 
he  has  given  away  his  property.  Such  a  man  is 
considered  merely  a-parasite,  consuming  without 
producing,  a  superfluous  creature  who  has  out- 
lived his  time.  For  country  people  (though  I 
have  known  striking  exceptions)  to  honor  their 
father  and  their  mother  when  it  is  no  longer  a 
matter  of  material  interest,  is  not  usual. 

Jean-Pierre  allowed  me  to  speak  without  in- 
terruption, and  when  I  had  finished,  he  added : 

"Yes,  I  understand,  but  you  see  I'm  going 
away. ' ' 

Where  could  he  be  going?  I  asked  him,  and 
he  made  a  vague  gesture. 

"Over  there." 


A  BELATED  VOCATION  81 

I  pretended  to  be  satisfied  with  this  answer, 
for  he  evidently  felt  he  could  not  yet  trust  me. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  be  away1?" 

"Always." 

What  the  devil  did  he  mean  by  these  mysterious 
words?  Surely  he  didn't  intend,  at  his  age,  to 
begin  life  over  again  elsewhere,  especially  after 
giving  up  his  property?  I  was  well  aware  that 
in  the  Maurienne,  where  witchcraft  and  sorcery 
are  accepted  as  facts  and  the  peasant  imagina- 
tion is  always  evolving  the  most  extraordinary 
ideas,  nothing  ought  to  surprise  me.  Crusading 
emigrants  were  common:  many  of  them  had 
already  gone  to  America.  Long  lines  of  conquer- 
ors passing  through  the  country  had  left  in  it 
some  of  the  ambition  and  desire  for  gain  that  had 
actuated  them.  Had  the  old  man  succumbed  to 
some  folly  of  this  sort  ?  I  was  on  fairly  intimate 
terms  with  (him,  and  believed  I  had  a  right  to 
insist : 

"Come,  now,  Jean-Pierre,  don't  you  care  to 
tell  me  where  you're  going?" 

His  little  smile  changed  to  a  savage  grimace 
that  made  him  look  twenty  years  younger.  It 
was  the  cunning  smile  of  the  child  who  plays 
a  trick  or  jumps  over  the  school-house  wall. 

"It's  a  secret." 

"They  don't  know  it  at  home?" 

"No.    Women  blab." 

This,  I  knew,  was  a  reference  to  Maddalena, 


82  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

Perhaps  that  strange  woman  had  again  taken  up 
her  pious  pilgrimages  ? 

"You're  mighty  mysterious,  Jean-Pierre.  So 
you  mean  to  tell  me  your  children  have  seen  the 
last  of  you  in  Bessans,  and  don't  even  know  where 
you  have  gone?  You  wouldn't  play  a  trick  like 
that !  Eemember  the  day  you  waited  for  Claude 
to  return.  Don't  you  cause  the  same  anxiety  to 
the  others." 

My  allusion  produced  a  more  powerful  effect 
than  I  had  hoped  for,  and  the  old  man's  hands 
trembled  more  violently  than  before.  But  he  at- 
tempted to  defend  himself : 

' '  Who 's  waiting  for  me  ?    The  wife 's  in  peace. ' ' 
"Your  son  Benoit.    And  Claude's  three  chil- 
dren— and  Maddalena." 

He  seemed  for  a  moment  to  weigh  the  words : 
only  one  name  interested  him. 
"All  right  then,  I'll  write  to  Etienne." 
Perceiving  the  full  extent  of  my  sympathy  for 
him,  Jean-Pierre  then  decided  to  reveal  his  ex- 
traordinary secret. 

"I'll  tell  you:  I'm  going  to  Hautecombe." 
Hautecombe,  on  the  banks  of  Lake  Le  Bourget, 
is  the  burying-ground  of  the  Princes  of  the  House 
of  Savoy.  The  church  is  a  huge  commonplace 
structure  with  a  tower.  Next  it  are  a  monastery 
and  cloister,  and  a  chapel  with  the  royal  tombs. 
What  was  the  old  peasant  planning  to  do  in  this 
retreat?  I  couldn't  believe  my  ears. 


A  BELATED  VOCATION  83 

"Oh,"  I  said  with  a  smile,  "I  know  very  well 
that  the  Dukes  of  Savoy  came  from  the  Maur- 
ienne,  but  I've  never  heard  that  every  Maurien- 
nais  had  a  right  to  be  buried  with  them  at  Haute- 
combe." 

"I'm  not  dead  yet,  Monsieur  1'Avocat,"  he 
said,  "but  that's  where  I'm  going  to  be  buried 
when  I  am." 

Having  broached  the  secret,  he  seemed  to  have 
rid  himself  of  a  burden,  and  his  former  dignified 
manner  returned  to  him.  He  seemed  to  enjoy 
telling  me  what  was  on  his  mind. 

' '  Tell  me,  Jean-Pierre,  what  is  there  besides  the 
tombs  at  Hautecombe  ? ' ' 

"There's  the  monastery." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  going  into  a  mon- 
astery? I'm  blest  if  I  ever  thought  you  had  the 
makings  of  a  monk  in  you!" 

"I  couldn't  very  well  be  a  monk,  because  I'm 
not  educated,  but  I'm  going  to  be  a  servant.  They 
call  them  brothers,  too." 

"Yes,  lay  brothers.  So  you've  taken  it  into 
your  head  to  be  a  lay-brother?  I  can't  believe 
it!" 

"Why  not?" 

"Simply  because  you've  been  in  the  habit  of 
commanding  other  people  for  the  last  fifty  years, 
and  an  old  general  finds  it  rather  hard  to  take 
orders." 

He  had  risen  and  was  now  standing  before  me. 


84  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

At  that  moment  he  was  clothed  with  a  majesty 
comparable  only  to  that  of  his  wife  as  she  lay  m 
the  stable  waiting  to  receive  God  into  her  pres- 
ence. 

"I've  given  away  everything  that  belonged  to 
me.  I'm  now  a  poor  man  and  if  I  want  to  become 
a  servant  there's  nothing  to  prevent  me." 

Become  a  servant  at  seventy !  To  eat  the  bread 
of  others  after  one  has  enjoyed  plenty  during  a 
whole  lifetime !  I  was  struck  with  what  he  said : 
"If  I  want  to  become  a  servant  there's  nothing  to 
prevent  me !"  For  one  brief  moment  I  had  been 
ready  to  believe  this  man  a  drunkard,  and  now  he 
calmly  announced  his  intention  of  entering  a 
monastery,  after  giving  up  all  his  property  and 
sacrificing  the  companionship  and  affection  of  his 
family.  If  I  had  not  known  him  for  a  native  of 
that  strange  Bessans  whose  inhabitants  claim  it 
as  the  birthplace  of  Jesus  and  who  for  a  thousand 
years  have  preserved  their  civilization,  character 
and  wild  imagination  intact,  I  would  have  thought 
him  mad.  With  the  utmost  tranquillity  he  laid  his 
entire  plan  before  me.  One  of  his  uncles  had  been 
a  Cistercian  monk  at  the  Abbey  of  Hautecombe, 
and  Jean-Pierre  reminding  the  authorities  of  this 
fact  had  written  them  offering  his  services.  As 
the  uncle  was  held  in  great  veneration  the  old 
man's  offer  had  been  accepted. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  will  not  regret  your 
decision,  Jean-Pierre  ? ' ' 


A  BELATED  VOCATION  85 

"My  mind  has  been  at  rest  ever  since  I  made 
it." 

"It  isn't  an  easy  life.  No  more  wine,  you 
know?" 

"The  price  of  wine  is  going  up;  anyway,  I'll 
learn  to  do  without  it." 

"How  did  you  discover  your  vocation?" 

"I  don't  know.    Perhaps  my  wife ?" 

He  could  give  me  no  satisfactory  explanation. 
I  hardly  think  he  tried  to.  The  vocation  had  sim- 
ply come,  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 

"When  do  you  start?" 

"Eight  off — this  afternoon — by  boat.  Just  as 
soon  as  I've  seen  the  notary  and  arranged  about 
the  will.  I've  kept  out  a  little  money  for  the 
notary — and  for  you,  too,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 
He  opened  his  purse  and  was  about  to  pay  me  a 
consultation  fee  when  I  stopped  him  with  a  wave 
of  the  hand. 

"No,  no,  I  shan't  accept  a  sou,  and  I  insist  be- 
sides on  your  lunching  with  me,  Jean-Pierre.  It's 
your  last  meal  in  this  world." 

He  hesitated  just  a  moment  and  then  accepted. 
A  marked  change  had  come  over  him  since  he  be- 
gan telling  his  secret :  he  was  now  cordial,  frank, 
almost  care-free. 

"Just  as  you  say.  I'll  see  the  notary  and  come 
back  in  a  couple  of  hours." 

After  he  left  I  hurried  to  the  kitchen  in  order 
to  effect  several  changes  in  my  menu.  Nothing 


86  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

would  be  too  good  for  the  man  who  was  on  the 
point  of  renouncing  riches,  power  and  worldly 
position.  My  cook  was  in  a  flurry,  and  must  have 
thought  I  had  asked  some  prince  to  lunch.  I  in- 
structed her  to  buy  the  finest  provisions  at  the 
best  shops.  She  returned  with  Lake  Le  Bourget 
herrings,  game  out  of  season,  one  of  those  inde- 
scribable pates  for  which  Chambery  is  justly  cele- 
brated, and  a  Sambaglione  a  I'ltalienne.  I  myself 
descended  to  the  cellar  and  selected  several  bot- 
tles of  the  finest  Savoy  wines — white  Chignin 
whose  bouquet  is  like  a  flower,  which  sparkles  like 
golden  Champagne,  and  is  as  fresh  and  stimulat- 
ing as  a  sunrise  on  the  snow;  and  red  Saint- Jean- 
de-la-Porte,  as  solid  as  the  best  Burgundy;  old 
Montmelian,  bottled  half  a  century  ago,  a  wine  to 
be  treated  with  respect  and  ceremonious  unction 
as  you  would  a  lord  of  some  bygone  age.  We 
have  excellent  vintages  in  Savoy,  quite  unknown 
beyond  the  border,  as  the  supply  is  strictly  lim- 
ited. 

I  myself  selected  the  appropriate  glasses.  When 
my  old  servant  heard  the  bell  ring  she  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  opening  the  kitchen  door 
for  a  glimpse  of  the  royal  guest.  I  looked  at  her 
in  amusement,  permitting  myself  this  additional 
liberty,  for  I  had  already  invaded  her  dominion 
in  order  to  supervise  the  mixing  of  the  sauces. 

"It's  only  another  client,"  grumbled  the  dis- 
appointed parlor-maid  as  she  ushered  in  Jean- 


A  BELATED  VOCATION  87 

Pierre.    "He'll  keep  lunch  waiting.    It's  a  shame 
we  never  can  have  meals  on  time ! ' ' 

"But,  Fanchette,  this  is  he!" 

"A  peasant!" 

"Exactly.  He  is  my  guest.  I  cannot  do  him 
enough  honor." 

Of  course  she  thought  I  had  gone  raving  mad, 
and  but  for  her  professional  pride  she  would  no 
doubt  have  refused  to  serve  the  rarer  delicacies 
that  had  been  prepared.  Still,  I  must  do  my  cook 
the  justice  of  stating  that  she  distinguished  her- 
self; I  am  quite  unable  to  determine  which  was 
her  masterpiece,  the  creamy  Hollandaise  served 
with  the  herring,  the  unimpeachable  partridge 
dressing,  or  the  sauce  that  went  with  the  8am- 
baglione.  Jean-Pierre  ate  and  drank  like — I  was 
going  to  say  "like  a  monk,"  but  the  comparison 
would  be  unjust  both  to  my  guest  and  to  the  monk 
—so  I  will  say  "like  a  true  Savoyard."  Under 
the  influence  of  good  food  and  wine  the  old  man 
was  completely  transformed.  I  saw  him  as  I  had 
often  seen  him  in  former  years,  his  mouth  puck- 
ered and  his  eyes  full  of  malice,  as  when  he  left 
the  court-house  like  a  dramatist  who  had  just  seen 
a  performance  of  his  own  play.  He  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  all  about  his  pious  vocation.  He  was  at 
this  moment  free  of  cares  and  though  he  was  on 
the  point  of  entering  a  life  of  self-abnegation  he 
was  at  least  beginning  his  pilgrimage  on  a  full 
stomach.  Here  I  was  offering  him  every  variety 


88  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

of  food  and  surrounding  him  with  a  veritable 
army  of  wine-glasses.  He  partook  of  everything 
that  was  set  before  him,  and  of  course  he  was  an 
expert  in  wines.  I  was  just  a  little  taken  aback 
at  this  self-indulgence,  but  I  was  gratified,  and 
told  him  so : 

"We  are  burying  your  earthly  existence, "  I 
said. 

"And  royally,  Monsieur  1'Avocat,  you  might 
add." 

"And  you're  sure  you  won't  miss  all  this  on 
your  visit  at  Hautecombe?" 

"My  visit!" 

"Yes,  your — whatever  you  choose  to  call  it." 

"You  can  get  used  to  any  change  so  long  as  it 
comes  all  at  once,  and  not  little  by  little." 

"Tell  me,  now,  just  what  you  intend  doing  up 
there?" 

"Do  as  I'm  told  to  do." 

"Do  what  you're  told  to  do?  But  you've  always 
been  the  one  to  give  orders  to  other  people !" 

"That's  just  it:  you're  happy  when  you  don't 
have  to  give  orders  to  other  people." 

"But  you've  not  prepared  yourself  for  this 
life." 

"•Oh,  Monsieur  1'Avocat,  you  don't  need  pre- 
paration to  learn  to  pick  vegetables,  wash  lettuce, 
or  clean  pots.  Any  woman  can  do  that!" 

"But  you're  not  a  woman." 

"I've  done  hard  work  in  my  day." 


A  BELATED  VOCATION  89 

It  was  clear  that  he  had  definitely  made  up  his 
mind :  his  decision  was  irrevocable,  because  it  was 
based  on  excellent  reasons,  which  I  was  not  to 
know  until  long  afterward.  As  he  had  eaten  and 
drunk  as  much  as  he  cared  for,  I  ventured  for  the 
last  time  to  ask  news  of  the  murder  case.  I  wished 
to  know  whether  before  leaving  home  he  had  as- 
sured himself  that  nothing  more  remained  to  do, 
that  every  clue  had  been  run  down  and  the  law 
satisfied  so  far  as  was  humanly  possible.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  Judge  had  lost  interest  and 
that  the  case  was  dragging.  Had  the  police  been 
keeping  an  eye  on  those  suspicious-looking  tramps 
along  the  Franco-Italian  frontier?  Was  it  not 
perhaps  worth  while  to  look  for  a  clue  among 
them?  Had  they  sent  detectives  into  the  low 
dives  of  Modane  and  secured  a  writ  of  inquiry 
from  the  Turin  courts?  I  asked  the  old  man  whe- 
ther he  didn't  think  it  a  good  idea  to  stop  over 
at  Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne  and  have  a  talk  with 
the  Judge? 

Jean-Pierre  allowed  me  to  elaborate  these  de- 
tails without  interruption  as  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
on  a  glass  of  Montmelian  that  sparkled  like  rubies, 
and  then  emptied  it  at  a  draught.  I  had  an  idea 
that  he  was  no  longer  interested  in  avenging  the 
murder  of  his  son  and  intended  to  forget  every- 
thing up  at  Hautecombe.  But  I  was  wrong. 

"I've  already  been  to  Saint- Jean-de-Maurienne 
and  seen  the  Judge." 


90  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"And  what  did  the  Judge  say?" 

"He  told  me  there  was  no  use  making  any  more 
investigations." 

"No  use?  What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Jean- 
Pierre?  Don't  you  want  to  avenge  Claude 's  mur- 
der?" 

I  noticed  that  he  hesitated  for  the  fraction  of 
a  moment.  Then  he  continued  with  his  accus- 
tomed authority : 

"Claude  was  not  murdered." 

I  was  now  absolutely  dumbfounded.  Claude 
not  murdered !  But  with  my  own  eyes  I  had  seen 
those  unmistakable  marks  on  the  boy's  neck,  and 
the  Mayor  had  corroborated  my  testimony.  The 
facts  were  further  attested  to  by  the  medical  ex- 
pert and  accepted  without  question  by  the  court. 
There  had  been  no  shadow  of  a  doubt  in  the  minds 
of  any  of  us.  Jean-Pierre's  wits  must  have  been 
affected  or  else  his  newly  revealed  vocation  had 
transformed  him  into  an  effeminate  coward,  ready 
to  leave  vengeance  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord.  I 
looked  at  him  across  the  table  and  I  felt  a  little 
sorry  for  him.  I  filled  his  glass  once  more  and 
again  he  emptied  it  at  a  gulp.  Was  he  seeking 
support  from  the  wine  ?  Hardly,  for  the  few  bot- 
tles he  had  drunk  were  after  all  not  much  for  a 
man  of  his  accomplishments.  It  served  only  to 
loosen  his  tongue  a  little,  for  his  remarks  were 
those  of  a  man  in  complete  possession  of  all  his 
faculties. 


A  BELATED  VOCATION  91 

"No,  Monsieur  1'Avocat,  it  was  not  murder. 
The  criminal  would  have  been  discovered.  Claude 
hadn't  one  enemy  in  the  whole  Valley.  You  know, 
that  story  about  the  Guyton  girl  in  Bonneval 
doesn't  amount  to  a  row  of  pins,  and  you  know  too 
those  beaters  of  yours  are  decent  fellows.  And 
smugglers  don't  kill  a,man  without  good  reason." 

"It  might  have  been  somebody  we  never  heard 
tell  of?" 

"No,  no,  I  tell  you,  Claude  fell  into  the  Arc  at 
night,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  He  dropped  his 
lantern,  and  that's  how  he  came  to  lose  his  way. 
Nobody  heard  the  dog  bark:  if  he  had  barked 
someone  would  have  heard  him  in  Barmanere. 
After  he  fell  in,  his  neck  was  bruised  by  the 
bushes.  I've  been  along  there  myself  and  seen  the 
bushes.  His  body  was  caught  in  them  and  the 
current  did  the  rest.  It's  only  natural,  don't  you 
see,  that  his  neck  would  be  bruised  and  scratched. 
And  that's  that." 

He  had  of  course  returned  to  the  theory  of  ac- 
cidental death  which  the  rest  of  us,  on  discovering 
the  bruises,  had  discarded  once  for  all.  He  had 
even  given  this  theory  a  new  impetus.  I  frankly 
admit  I  was  too  astonished  to  answer,  and  he 
went  on  with  that  air  of  authority  which  he  was 
so  soon  to  abandon  for  the  rest  of  his  days : 

"Those  are  the  facts,  Monsieur  PAvocat.  Ee- 
member,  I  am  telling  you  this,  I  Claude's  father, 
and  you've  got  to  believe  me.  At  first  the  Judge 


92  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

wasn't  sure,  bnt  I  made  him  see.  He's  investi- 
gated the  whole  district  as  far  as  Modane  with- 
out finding  the  ghost  of  a  new  clue — he's  come 
back  like  a  dog  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  a 
dog  that's  gone  off  on  a  false  scent.  First  he 
thought  I  was  talking  nonsense,  but  after  he  heard 
everything  I  had  to  say,  he  said,  *  Maybe  you're 
right  after  all,  Pere  Convert,'  and  just  as  I  was 
going  off  he  said,  'Quite  right,  Convert,  that  ex- 
plains why  our  investigations  have  come  to  noth- 
ing.' And  then  he  made  me  come  in  again.  He 
told  the  clerk  everything  I'd  said,  and  the  clerk 
wrote  it  down  and  then  I  signed  it." 

The  words  "Then  I  signed  it"  were  spoken  in 
a  tone  so  peremptory  that  you  might  have  thought 
he  was  the  judge  pronouncing  the  investigations 
formally  terminated. 

Coffee  and  liqueurs — there  was  an  old  Apremont 
among  these  last — had  been  served  during  the 
old  man's  recital.  Jean-Pierre  drank  everything 
that  was  offered  and  refused  nothing  that  was 
passed  a  second  time.  He  sat  smoking  one  of 
those  long  Italian  cigars  with  a  straw  running 
through  it,  which  I  had  offered  him.  He  smoked 
it  slowly  and  with  obvious  regret :  it  was  his  last 
smoke.  He  looked  at  the  clock  and  rose  to  his 
feet. 

"I  mustn't  be  late  for  the  boat." 

His  face,  ruddy  as  a  rock  under  the  setting 
sun,  his  legs  firmly  planted  on  the  ground,  Jean- 


A  BELATED  VOCATION  93 

Pierre  had  lost  every  particle  of  resemblance  to 
that  pathetic  little  man  who  had  stood  in  my  of- 
fice a  short  time  before.  Was  I  to  attribute  this 
change  to  the  food,  or  to  his  new  vocation?  As  he 
stood  at  my  door,  ready  to  go,  he  turned  as  if  he 
wished  to  impart  a  last  confidential  message. 

"  You  're  going  to  see  Etienne  up  at  the  chalet, 
aren't  you?" 

' 'Surely,  Jean-Pierre.  I'm  very  glad  to  have 
him,  though  naturally  I  regret  his  father." 

"He's  a  nice  boy  but  too  serious-minded." 

"Too  serious-minded?" 

"Yes,  it  got  him  too  soon." 

"What  got  Mm  too  soon?" 

He  put  his  finger  to  his  forehead,  by  which  the 
old  man  meant  that  the  lad  thought  more  than 
young  men  of  his  age  are  apt  to  think.  Without 
doubt  his  father's  "accident" — since  accident  it 
must  be  considered — and  his  grandmother's 
death,  had  given  the  boy  a  maturity  that  comes 
only  from  great  mental  suffering. 

"He  has  all  sorts  of  notions — imagines  things 
and  all  that.  This  business  about  his  father 
weighs  on  his  mind.  That's  bad,  Monsieur  1'Avo- 
cat,  bad.  Children  oughtn't  to  be  mixed  up  in 
those  kind  of  things.  A  boy  like  Etienne  ought  to 
be  young  at  his  time  of  life,  he  ought  to  have 
broad  shoulders  like  me.  His  shoulders  aren't 
broad  enough.  I'm  depending  on  you,  Monsieur 
1'Avocat." 


94 

"On  me?' 

"Yes,  to  set  his  mind  at  rest.  Tell  him  not  to 
worry  any  more :  it  was  an  accident.  He  ought  to 
be  a  boy  with  the  other  boys,  have  a  good  time  and 
all  that,  don't  you  think?  You  keep  an  eye  on 
him." 

"I  give  you  my  word  I  will,  Jean-Pierre." 

I  had  promised  without  any  definite  idea  of 
what  I  was  promising,  for  I  saw  that  my  guest 
was  worried  about  Etienne.    I  saw  immediately 
that  my  reply  had  lifted  a  burden  from  him.    He 
took  my  hand,  and  pressing  it  in  his  callous 
palms,  bade  me  good-bye. 

"Thank  you  for  everything,  Monsieur  PAvocat. 
That  was  a  fine  dinner  you  gave  me." 

In  the  country,  you  know,  dinner  is  the  mid- 
day meal.  As  he  turned  to  leave  it  suddenly 
came  over  me  that  I  was  genuinely  sorry  to  see 
him  go.  I  called  him  back. 

I 1  Good-bye,  Jean-Pierre ! ' ' 

And — well — I  kissed  him !  I  had  not  before  re- 
alized the  depth  of  my  affection  for  him,  and  now 
he  was  leaving  me  forever,  to  be  a  servant  in  the 
House  of  the  Lord.  It  was  at  least  a  consolation 
to  think  that  I  had  sent  him  off  happy  and  com- 
forted. My  unexpected  outburst  of  affection  had 
pleased  him,  having  instantly  swept  away  every 
social  barrier  between  us.  As  he  turned  for  the 
last  time  he  murmured : 

"I  leave  the  lad  in  your  hands " 


A  BELATED  VOCATION  95 

He  descended  the  stairs  a  picture  of  majesty  in 
spite  of  his  ridiculous  clothes.  I  was  to  see  him 
once  again,  long  after,  a  more  majestic  and  a 
more  tragic  figure,  King  Lear,  but  without  a 
crown  and  without  a  daughter. 


CHAPTER  V 

SUSPICION 

SOME  days  afterward  I  set  out  for  Bessans  with 
my  friend  Louis  de  Vimines,  who  like  myself  was 
an  enthusiastic  hunter.  The  Couvert  house  had 
lost  three  of  its  inmates  during  the  past  year, 
but  when  I  entered  it  there  was  no  visible  change. 
Maddalena  had  taken  entire  charge  of  the  house- 
hold; she  was  still  the  calm-featured  madonna, 
keenly  alert,  coming  and  going,  passing  to  and 
fro  unobtrusively  between  kitchen  and  stable. 

"Well,  Maddialena,"  I  said  -jokingly,  "what 
about  those  pilgrimages  of  yours?" 

"I  don't  go  any  more." 

"Aren't  you  going  even  to  La  Salette?  There's 
a  great  festival  there  in  honor  of  Maximin  and 
Melanie. ' ' 

This  news  left  her  cold,  and  I  perceived  that 
her  domestic  duties  were  now  occupying  all  her 
time  and  attention. 

' '  So  the  old  man  has  gone  ? ' ' 

"He  got  the  notion,  and  left." 

"Did  you  know  he  was  going?" 

"No:  he  wrote  Etienne." 

Jean-Pierre's  departure,  which  had  to  me 
seemed  so  extraordinary,  appeared  to  have  made 

96 


SUSPICION  97 

no  stir  in  the  family  circle.  How  easily  some 
seemingly  difficult  problems  solve  themselves ! 

"And  Benoit,  is  he  here  with  you?" 

An  indiscreet  question,  perhaps,  but  I  had  imag- 
ined that  the  absence  of  both  the  old  people  had 
created  a  delicate  situation,  for  Maddalena  and 
her  brother-in-law,  living  together  under  one  roof, 
might  now  require  some  reconciling  influence  or 
authority.  Maddalena  had  apparently  not  given 
the  matter  a  thought. 

"Benoit  is  up  at  the  chalet  with  the  flocks  and 
cattle." 

"Then  who  takes  up  the  food?  The  children, 
Etienne  and  Jean-Marie?" 

"  No,  I  do.    I  'm  used  to  that. ' ' 

As  of  course  she  was.  She  had  done  it  for 
years,  but  that  was  before  she  had  taken  charge 
of  the  house. 

"But  who  manages  the  house  when  you  aren't 
here,  Maddalena?" 

"Eina — she's  quite  grown  up  now." 

At  this  moment  a  tall,  fresh-colored  healthy  girl 
of  seventeen  came  in ;  when  she  caught  sight  of  me 
she  blushed,  and  tried  to  hide  behind  her  brother 
Etienne  who  followed  her. 

"How  you  have  grown,"  I  said.  "You'll  be 
getting  married  before  long." 

At  this  her  already  pink  cheeks  flushed  to  a  deep 
crimson.  I  thought  my  reference  to  marriage 
would  please  her,  but  I  realized  at  once  that  I 


98  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

had  wounded  her  feelings.  Her  father's  death 
was  perhaps  too  recent  for  her  to  think  of  court- 
ship. I  was  sorry  for  having  spoken.  With 
these  Maurienne  peasants  you  must  choose  your 
words  as  carefully  as  in  the  most  refined  com- 
pany. Etienne  spoke  up  in  order  to  cover  his 
sister's  embarrassment. 

"She  has  plenty  of  time,"  he  said,  "no  need  to 
hurry  her." 

Etienne  was  tall  and  thin  with  wide  shoulders 
and  a  narrow  waist;  he  had  sharp  features  like 
Jean-Pierre's,  his  nose  a  little  less  hooked  and  his 
chin  not  so  pointed.  His  manner  was  softer  than 
that  of  his  grandfather,  and  he  had  an  air  of  spir- 
ituality inherited  from  his  grandmother.  As  often 
happens  where  many  generations  and  races  live 
together,  this  lad  had  inherited  more  from  his 
grandparents  and  ancestors  than  from  his  par- 
ents. I  looked  at  Etienne  for  some  time,  this  lad 
who  was  to  be  my  intimate  companion  for  the 
next  three  weeks,  and  I  felt  affection  for  him  not 
unmixed,  I  declare,  with  doubt.  How  in  the 
world  could  this  boy  take  the  place  of  his  om- 
niscient father — a  wonderful  hunter,  a  marvelous 
cook,  an  inimitable  spinner  of  yarns?  I  never 
could  hope  to  replace  him  I 

"So  I'm  to  take  you  with  me!" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 

"You  know  something  about  the  chamois?" 

"A  little,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 


SUSPICION  99 

"You're  quite  at  home  in  the  mountains, 
though?" 

"Oh,  yes.    I  know  the  mountains  all  right." 

The  boy  was,  I  knew,  better  educated  than 
most  youths  of  his  age.  Not  long  since,  the  Cure 
of  Bessans  thought  he  had  a  vocation  and  put  him 
into  the  Seminary  at  Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne. 
Though  Etienne  did  well  in  his  studies  and 
learned  with  the  greatest  facility,  he  stopped  sud- 
denly at  the  end  of  his  second  year.  He  felt  the 
need  of  mountain  air;  the  Alpine  pastures  were 
calling  him.  The  pious  Petronille  and  the  super- 
stitious Maddalena  were  grieved  at  Etienne 's  de- 
cision, for  both  of  them  had  dreamed  of  seeing 
him  return  to  them  one  day  a  Cure  who  would 
give  them-  his  blessing. 

Jean-Marie  was  in  every  way  different  from  his 
brother.  He  was  a  stout  rosy-cheeked  youngster, 
a  glutton  who  delighted  in  stuffing  himself  with 
soup  and  potatoes,  and  already  began  to  resemble 
his  father.  He  had  soon  learned  tricks  of  every 
sort,  to  know  flowers  and  plants  and  mushrooms 
and  all  the  animals,  to  carve  wood,  and  even  to 
master  the  first  principles  of  the  art  of  cooking. 
•"Later,"  I  thought  to  myself  as  I  observed  the 
ceaseless  activity  of  the  boy,  who  paid  no  more 
{attention  to  me  than  if  I  had  not  been  there — 
"Later,  I'll  take  him  with  me.  At  fourteen  he 
knows  more  than  his  learned  brother  the  semi- 
narist." 


100  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

Besides  Etienne,  I  took  with  me  the  same  four 
beaters  of  the  year  before :  Antoine  Portaz,  Sera- 
fin  Euffin,  Michel  Burnin,  and  Anthelme  Chabord. 
On  my  way  up  I  stopped  to  pay  my  respects  to  the 
hermit  Benoit.  As  usual,  I  found  him  deferential 
but  taciturn.  When  I  spoke  of  his  father  his  an- 
swer was  like  Maddalena's : 

"He  got  the  notion  into  his  head,  and  left. 
Everyone  is  free  to  do  as  he  likes.  There  is  no 
use  trying  to  persuade  or  advise  people." 

Etienne  and  Benoit  seemed  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  each  other.  Benoit,  indeed,  appeared  to  be 
making  some  effort  to  create  a  more  human  atti- 
tude toward  Claude's  children  and  seemed  anxious 
to  take  the  place  of  the  dead  father.  At  least,  this 
is  how  I  interpreted  the  interest  inspired  in  him 
by  Etienne 's  visit.  Etienne  had  with  him  his 
father's  dog  Coal.  It  was  remarkable  that  Benoit, 
who  never  showed  any  affection  except  for  his 
cows,  condescended  to  pat  the  little  dog;  but 
Coal  ran  off  growling. 

We  spent  the  afternoon  settling  ourselves  at 
the  chalet,  which  I  had  rented  for  the  season. 
The  little  house  is  situated  at  the  summit  of  the 
neck  between  the  spurs  of  the  Albaron  and  the 
Charbonel.  As  you  stand  there,  there  spreads  out 
before  you  the  nearby  glaciers,  with  only  a  few 
sprinklings  of  larch  and  sloping  pastures  between 
you  and  them.  If  you  turn  back  in  the  direction 
from  which  you  have  climbed,  up  the  Valley  of 


SUSPICION  101 

the  Arc,  you  are  faced  with  the  majestic  Ridge  of 
La  Vanoise — the  peaks  of  Le  Vallonbrun  and 
Mean-Martin,  and  the  equivocally  named  Croix- 
de-Don- Juan-Maurice. 

The  first  night  of  each  season  in  the  mountains 
invariably  intoxicates  me :  the  solitude,  far  from 
petty  disputes  and  human  turmoil  and  from  men 
who  weary  one  and  eat  into  one's  life  as  moths 
eat  into  fur;  the  infinite  peace  that  seems  to  reach 
the  somber  arch  of  Heaven  sprinkled  with  the  sil- 
ver-dust of  innumerable  stars ;  the  silence  broken 
only  by  the  regular  rhythm  of  the  stream;  the 
fresh  air  that  caresses  the  face  and  enters  into 
the  very  soul  and  gives  it  life ;  everything  together 
exalts  me  like  some  soul-stirring  chant  and  soothes 
me  like  a  prayer.  My  companion  felt  just  as  I 
did,  and  our  sensations  found  expression  in  the 
simple  words,  "It's  good  to  be  here!"  But  I 
soon  discovered  that  it  was  not  quite  so  good  as  it 
used  to  be :  Claude  was  missing,  and  his  son  did 
not  exactly  fill  his  place.  I  don't  mean  that  the 
food — prepared  by  Serafin — was  bad;  it  lacked 
merely  a  certain  seasoning  and  variety,  but  I  got 
used  to  it;  not  that  the  hunting  was  unsatisfac- 
torily planned  or  unsuccessful.  On  the  contrary, 
I  made  many  a  good  shot  and  enjoyed  many  a  fine 
chase.  It  was  simply  that  there  was  something  in 
the  air  during  the  first  few  days — I  couldn't  make 
out. 

After  dinner  I  joined  the  beaters  in  the  kitchen 


102  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

as  I  had  always  done :  that  was  almost  the  pleas- 
antest  part  of  the  day.  I  remember  so  well  the 
huge  open  fireplace  and  the  flaming  logs  that 
lighted  up  the  whole  room,  though  during  the  in- 
terminable August  twilights  there  is  little  need  of 
artificial  light.  A  fresh  chamois  skin  hung  on  a 
hook,  and  the  meat  lay  on  a  shelf  against  the 
wall.  "We  lighted  our  pipes  and  exchanged  end- 
less yarns  until  bedtime.  It  was  here  that  the 
unchanging  customs  and  the  whole  history  of 
Bessans  were  revealed  to  me.  What  extraordi- 
nary tales  of  hunting,  in  which  the  chamois  in- 
variably received  unstinted  praise  for  his  cour- 
age and  strength!  There  was  one  story  of  a 
buck,  wounded  by  a  rifle  shot  who  fell  from  a 
height  of  fifteen  meters;  the  hunters  thought 
he  had  been  killed  outright,  but  they  soon  caught 
sight  of  him  running  away:  he  had  fallen  on  his 
feet  and  was  making  off  at  full  speed.  And 
there  was  that  other  story  of  the  female  chamois 
with  her  kid.  The  kid  was  hard  pressed  by  the 
dogs.  Protecting  her  young,  she  made  her  way 
into  a  rock  crevice  that  was  open  on  one  side. 
Standing  in  front  of  the  kid  she  faced  her  pur- 
suers, maintaining  a  magnificent  attitude  of  de- 
fiance. She  stood  her  ground,  receiving  two 
shots  without  moving;  the  third  killed  her,  and 
only  when  she  had  fallen,  was  the  kid  revealed. 
Stories  of  this  sort  arouse  our  admiration  for 


SUSPICION  103 

the  game  we  pursue:  they  appeal  to  the  hunter's 
soul.  Why  should  we  not  respect  and  admire 
our  enemy? 

And  after  the  stories  we  would  make  ready  for 
the  next  day's  hunt.  Each  one  would  suggest 
his  plan.  When  Claude  was  with  us  it  was  dif- 
ferent: his  plan  and  his  alone  was  always  fol- 
lowed. He  knew  exactly  where  to  go.  The  eager 
faces  of  the  hunters  stood  clearly  revealed  by 
the  fire  of  blazing  pine-logs ;  they  were  the  faces 
of  men  who  had  worked-  hard  and  dined  well.  We 
were  united  by  common  interests  and  a  common 
existence,  eating  and  hunting  together  in  these 
airy  mountains.  We  understood  one  another  per- 
fectly and  lived  in  close  accord  despite  occasional 
jealousies  among  the  men. 

Somehow  I  felt  a  foreboding  that  this  cordial 
relationship  was  about  to  end.  There  were  oc- 
casional pauses  during  our  conversations,  and 
prolonged  silences;  the  men's  faces  expressed 
concern,  something  remained  unspoken,  something 
was  being  held  back.  What,  I  asked  myself, 
could  be  the  reason,  and  I  repeated  this  question 
day  after  day.  I  finally  decided  that  it  was  the 
presence  of  Etienne. 

"This  Etienne  of  yours  has  the  evil  eye,"  Louis 
de  Vimines  said  to  me  one  day. 

Perhaps  he  was  too  young  to  be  associated  with 
us?  Our  ways  of  living  were  possibly  not  suited 


104  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

to  a  boy  of  his  age.  I  would  watch  him  carefully; 
he  would  soon  give  me  a  chance  to  learn  whether 
that  were  so. 

One  evening  I  went  into  the  kitchen  with  Vim- 
ines  and  found  only  two  of  the  men :  Serafin,  the 
cook,  and  Anthelme  Chabord.  I  inquired  about 
the  others. 

"The  boy  took  them  off,"  I  was  told. 

"Where  to?" 

"Bonneval." 

"Without  my  permission?  Why,  we're  going 
to  start  off  tomorrow  at  sunrise  I  I  don't  like 
this  at  all." 

"Well,  you  see,"  explained  the  cook,  who  was 
evidently  the  official  spokesman,  "you  said  at  sup- 
per you  were  going  to  bed  the  minute  you  were 
through  eating. ' ' 

"I  was  tired  then,  but  I'm  not  tired  now.  This 
is  a  nice  how-d'ye-do!" 

"They  didn't  expect  you'd  come  in  here." 

"And  they  took  advantage  of  that  to  run 
away!" 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  it  was  a  bet  Etienne 
made,  that  they  couldn't  walk  to  Bonneval  and 
back  in  four  hours  and  a  half.  They'll  be  here 
by  midnight." 

"Yes,  and  in  fine  condition  for  tomorrow!" 

"They'll  be  all  right.  You  don't  know  them!" 
-  "And  what's  the  bet?" 

"Claude  Couvert's  rifle." 


SUSPICION  105 

"What  the  devil!  Why,  that's  an  old  Martini  I 
gave  him.  It's  still  good.  Very  foolish  of  Etienne 
to  part  with  that  weapon — it  had  a  wonderful 
sight!" 

The  incident  had  made  me  quite  angry,  and  I 
left  the  kitchen  and  went  straight  to  bed. 

Next  morning  Etienne  called  me  on  time  as  if 
nothing  had  happened;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
seemed  brighter  and  more  light-hearted  than 
usual.  He  threw  the  shutters  wide  open  and  a 
bright  morning  sun  flooded  the  room. 

"Well,  what  about  your  jaunt  to  Bonne  vail" 

"You  know  about  that,  Monsieur  1'Avocat?" 

"Of  course.    Who  won?" 

"They  did.    We  were  back  by  midnight." 

"It  was  very  stupid  of  you.  In  the  future  you 
will  be  good  enough  to  remain  at  your  post  and 
not  turn  this  establishment  upside  down." 

I  was  soon  to  learn  the  real  reason  for  the  boy's 
apparently  meaningless  adventure. 

rA  few  days  later,  as  I  was  scaling  a  particularly 
steep  rock  on  the  side  of  the  Albaron,  on  my  way 
to  a  lookout,  Portaz,  who  was  carrying  my  gun 
and  bag,  suddenly  stopped  and  turned  to  me : 

"Monsieur,  I  want  to  go." 

"Go  where!" 

"I  want  to  quit." 

"Why,  Antoine,  you've  been  one  of  my  steadi- 
est men  since  the  very  first.  Let's  climb  up  first 
and  you  can  tell  me  all  about  it  up  there."  But 


106  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

the  man  insisted  that  he  wanted  to  go.  He  didn't 
like  the  idea  of  being  suspected  of  murder. 

"Why,  my  dear  fellow,  who  suspects  you?" 

The  suspicions  harbored  by  the  Judge  at  Saint- 
Jean-de-Maurienne  immediately  occurred  to  me. 

"It's  Etienne.  He  played  a  trick  on  us  last 
night  and  took  us  to  Bonneval.  You  know  where 
the  road  runs  along  the  river  between  Bar- 
manere  and  the  bridge — well,  he  showed  us  the 
place  where  his  father  was  strangled.  'You  see,' 
he  said,  'Coal  knows  the  place.  Coal  remembers. 
Here,  Coal ! '  And  the  dog  did  begin  to  howl  and 
jumped  into  the  water.  Dogs've  got  wonderful 
memories.  And  then  do  you  know  what  the  boy 
did?  He  took  his  dog  by  the  collar  and  pushed 
him  up  against  Michel  Burnin,  and  then  me." 

"What  did  he  mean?" 

"He  meant  that  he  wanted  to  find  out  if  the  dog 
remembered  me  or  Michel. ' ' 

"Oh,  nonsense!" 

"It's  the  truth  I'm  telling  you,  and  this  very 
morning  he's  trying  to  play  the  same  trick  on 
Serafin  Euffin  and  Anthelme  Chabord.  He  can 
keep  his  father's  rifle  and  go  to  hell  for  all  of 
me!  I'm  not  used  to  keeping  company  with  de- 
tectives! I  won't  stand  any  more  tricks  like 
that!" 

I  did  my  best  to  quiet  him  and  promised  to 
straighten  out  the  matter. 

So  this  was  why  our  evenings  had  been  spoiled! 


SUSPICION  107 

Some  obscure  instinct  had  told  us  that  we  were 
all  under  suspicion  and  constant  surveillance. 
Old  Jean-Pierre  had  warned  me  that  "  these  no- 
tions" were  not  good  for  Etienne,  that  his  "shoul- 
ders weren't  broad  enough."  He  was  like  a  puppy 
that  has  not  learned  to  hunt,  and  in  his  desire 
to  avenge  his  father  he  followed  every  false  scent. 
He  had  doubtless  imagined  that  the  murderer 
the  chamois.  Who,  he  thought,  could  have  known 
knew  Claude  Convert  had  gone  to  Bonneval  to  sell 
this  except  the  men  he  was  living  with  and  who 
were  naturally  jealous  of  him?  And  he  had 
counted  on  the  dog.  Coal  would  without  doubt 
recognize  the  murderer  if  he  could  be  brought  to 
the  scene  of  the  crime.  That  is  why  Etienne  had 
made  his  companions  submit  to  the  ordeal. 

I  hadn't  brought  Etienne  with  me  to  have  him 
play  pranks  of  this  sort,  and  when  we  returned 
from  the  hunt  I  planned  to  see  him  alone.  The 
moment  he  was  with  me  I  took  the  initiative  be- 
fore he  had  a  chance  to  speak: 

"So  this  is  the  way  you  abuse  my  hospitality!" 
"My  father  was  murdered,  you  know!" 
"That  is  by  no  means  certain.     Your  grand- 
father didn't  think  so.    I'll  be  glad  to  talk  over 
the  whole  matter  with  you,  but  in  any  case  you 
have  shown  a  lack  of  confidence  in  me.    You  think 
you  are  cleverer  than  those  who  have  investigated 
your  father's  death.    You  have  taken  it  into  your 
head  to  suspect  and  spy  upon  honest  men ;  other 


108  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

people  have  had  the  same  notion,  those  who  had  a 
better  right  than  you,  a  wider  experience  and  bet- 
ter evidence.  They  have  admitted  that  they  were 
mistaken,  I  would  gladly  have  told  you  this  if 
you  had  asked  me.*' 

In  all  this  he  seemed  to  catch  only  my  allusion 
to  the  investigations. 

"Others?   Who?   Tell  me,  Monsieur  PAvocat." 

"Why,  the  Judge  at  Saint- Jean-de-Maurienne." 

I  briefly  summed  up  my  conversation  with  the 

Judge  and  repeated  the  evidence  I  had  given 

proving  the  innocence  of  my  men;  the  terrific 

storm  the  night  of  the  murder,  the  fact  that  the 

men's  clothes  were  dry  the  next  morning,  and 

the  conclusive  fact  that  they  had  no  change  of 

clothing. 

"That's  true,"  agreed  Etienne.  "They  would 
have  been  soaked  going  down  to  Bonneval." 

I  had  succeeded  in  reassuring  him,  but  the  mo- 
ment I  had  finished,  an  extraordinary  thing  oc- 
curred to  me:  I  had  never  thought  of  it  before. 
When  I  had  gone  to  Benoit's  chalet  to  inquire 
about  Claude,  which  took  me  not  over  fifteen  min- 
utes, I  had  found  Benoit  half  naked,  drying  his 
clothes  in  the  morning  sun.  He  must,  therefore, 
have  gone  out  during  the  storm:  to  look  for  his 
cows,  he  had  said.  It  is  impossible  to  control  the 
notions  that  come  into  one's  head:  You  either 
accept  or  reject  them.  In  this  instance,  however, 
I  was  unable  to  do  either.  Why,  the  notion  was 


SUSPICION  109 

fantastic,  terrible.  Benoit  and  Claude,  though 
they  were  somewhat  incompatible,  got  along  very 
well  together.  I  had  no  right,  without  the  least 
tangible  evidence,  to  suspect  even  for  a  moment 
that  there  could  have  existed  between  them  a  ha- 
tred great  enough  to  account  for  or  give  a  motive 
to,  murder.  I  blamed  myself  for  allowing  the 
idea  to  pass  through  my  mind,  and  resolutely  cast 
it  aside.  But  I  could  not  wholly  forget  it,  for  one 
little  detail  (quite  easily  explicable,  no  doubt) 
would  persist  in  my  mind.  Maddalena  had  come 
up  to  the  chalet  the  evening  before,  but  was  unable 
to  leave  on  account  of  the  storm.  Benoit  had  told 
me  this  himself.  He  had  not  dared  let  her  go  on 
such  a  night. 

My  imagination  was  running  away  with  me. 
Could  it  be  that  my  frequent  sojourns  in  the 
Maurienne  had  unbalanced  me?  Was  I  too  fall- 
ing under  the  magic  and  sorcery  of  the  region? 

After  a  long  pause  I  noticed  a  rapt  expression 
on  the  face  of  my  companion.  He  too  had  been 
following  my  course  of  thought. 

"So  you  are  quite  convinced  now?"  I  said. 

"Yes,  but " 

"But  what?" 

"The  dog  didn't  bark.  He  must  have  known 
the  murderer.  They  were  my  father's  comrades 
and  it  seemed  natural " 

"Oh,  let  your  father's  comrades  be!  They 
never  wished  him  harm.  And  besides,  who  told 


110  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

you  the  dog  didn't  bark?  He  couldn't  have  been 
heard  because  of  the  roaring  of  the  river,  and  re- 
member, it  happened  at  night  while  the  people  at 
Barmanere  were  fast  asleep.  They're  heavy 
sleepers.  In  all  likelihood  it  was  not  murder :  the 
court  is  practically  certain  of  that." 

"How?" 

I  explained  in  great  detail  everything  his  grand- 
father had  told  me,  passing  on  the  information 
with  all  the  dignity  and  eloquence  of  a  lawyer 
reading  a  will.  But  Etienne  became  actually  vio- 
lent as  he  protested  against  this  interpretation  of 
the  mystery. 

"The  old  man  (his  grandfather)  was  willing  to 
forgive  the  murderer  because  he  was  going  into  a 
monastery.  You've  got  to  do  things  like  that 
When  you  have  a  vocation.  But  the  murdered  man 
was  my  father,  remember  that." 

By  this  he  meant,  of  course,  that  it  was  his 
business  to  avenge  the  murder.  I  questioned  him 
further  urging  that  even  under  such  extraordi- 
nary circumstances  no  son  had  any  right  to  accuse 
people  almost  at  random.  I  told  him  he  must  not 
let  his  imagination  run  away  with  him.  I  knew 
him  for  an  intelligent  and  level-headed  boy  and 
during  our  long  conversation  I  even  explained  the 
theory  of  Joseph  de  Maistre  on  the  temporal  pun- 
ishment of  crimes  and  the  unexpected  events 
which  in  the  end  reveal  the  criminal.  He  listened 


SUSPICION  111 

attentively,  and  I  was  so  sure  of  my  success  that  I 
even  joked  with  him: 

"And  what  about  me,  Etienne,  have  you  sus- 
pected me?" 

"No,  not  you." 

"Why  not?" 

His  answer  was,  to  say  the  least,  a  crushing 
one,  and  decidedly  unflattering  to  me. 

"You're  not  strong  enough:  you  couldn't  have 
strangled  my  father." 

"So  that's  the  only  reason!" 

"You  were  his  friend,  and  you  had  no  motive 
for  killing  him. ' ' 

He  had  spoken  these  words  with  the  utter 
frankness  of  youth ;  he  was  incapable  of  the  slight- 
est hypocrisy.  I  now  understood  to  what  an  ex- 
tent the  "business  about  his  father"  had  "got 
him,"  according  to  the  picturesque  expression  of 
Jean-Pierre,  Etienne  in  his  turn  had  followed 
every  clue,  starting  invariably  from  the  same 
point:  the  murderer  must  have  known  of  Claude's 
trip  to  Bonneval  and  the  dog  must  on  that  occa- 
sion have  recognized  him,  otherwise  he  would 
have  warned  his  master  of  the  approach  of  a 
stranger.  It  was  now  my  business  to  restrain 
this  youthful  ardor  at  any  cost  or  the  boy  might 
go  about  accusing  everyone.  I  therefore  took 
advantage  of  the  confidence  I  had  inspired  to  ex- 
tract a  promise  from  him: 


112  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"When  you  have  any  suspicions,  come  and  tell 
me.  We'll  investigate  together.  I've  been  your 
grandfather's  lawyer,  and  your  father's,  so  why 
not  let  me  be  yours?" 

"All  right.    I  promise." 

He  smiled,  a  thing  he  rarely  did.  It  was  a  relief 
to  have  someone  share  his  secret  with  him.  When 
we  returned  to  the  others  his  expression  was 
normal  and  he  said  no  more  to  Kuffin  and  Chabord 
about  taking  them  down  to  the  river. 

I  imagined  now  that  peace  had  returned  to  the 
chalet,  when  suddenly  I  came  near  ruining  every- 
thing myself.  As  I  was  going  to  bed  one  night 
— my  friend  Vimines  had  already  turned  in — I 
noticed  that  I  had  no  cartridges.  A  disconcerting 
discovery  for  a  hunter.  Maddalena  must  have 
received  the  new  supply  that  had  been  sent  me 
and  left  them  at  Benoit's  chalet,  having  no  doubt 
been  unable  to  bring  them  up  to  me.  Should  I 
go  for  them  myself?  My  beaters  were  fast  asleep, 
worn  out  by  the  long  day's  hunt  on  the  heights 
and  in  the  valleys.  I  couldn't  think  of  disturbing 
them  so  I  set  out  myself.  The  moon,  which  had 
scarcely  begun  to  wane,  shed  a  light  almost  as 
strong  as  the  sun  at  dawn.  I  could  see  the  long 
stretches  of  the  Valley,  the  trees,  and  even  sepa- 
rate clumps  of  bushes.  The  beds  of  snow  and  the 
great  glaciers,  caressed  by  the  soft  white  light, 
sparkled  as  if  animated  by  a  spiritual  life.  Who 
has  dared  think  of  the  mountains  as  the  abode  of 


SUSPICION  113 

death?  It  is  in  the  mountains  that  supernal  life 
springs  from  the  very  roots  of  nature.  Are  not 
the  mountains  the  vast  reservoir  of  the  earth?  Is 
it  not  they  that  send  down  nourishing  and  benefi- 
cent waters  to  a  world  of  men?  As  I  went  down 
the  path  I  was  reminded  of  what  the  Ancients 
had  written  of  the  night  and  inevitably  the  tacitae 
per  arnica  silentia  lunae  of  Vergil  came  to  my  lips. 

It  was  familiar  with  the  internal  arrangement 
of  Benoit's  hut:  downstairs  were  the  kitchen  and 
a  furnished  room,  just  over  the  hay-loft.  Even 
at  that  time  cowherds  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  a 
bed  As  I  put  my  hand  on  the  latch  I  saw  that 
the  door  had  not  been  locked.  It  is  not  necessary 
to  lock  doors  at  night  in  this  part  of  the  country. 
I  went  into  the  kitchen;  I  should  only  have  to 
knock  at  Benoit's  door  and  tell  him  of  my  pre- 
dicament. He  would  then  tell  me  where  to  find 
the  cartridges  and  I  would  return.  This  was  the 
simplest  thing  to  do,  and  surely  the  most  natural. 
I  executed  my  little  plan  step  by  step.  I  knocked 
twice  on  the  wall  and  hearing  nothing  I  opened 
the  bedroom  door.  I  had  no  hesitation,  so  sure 
was  I  that  I  would  not  be  intruding.  Besides,  I 
deemed  that  our  neighborly  relations  had  given 
me  this  right. 

Through  the  half-open  door  I  saw  distinctly  in 
the  bright  moonlight  that  came  in  through  the 
curtainless  window  two  heads  on  the  bolster: 
Benoit's  and  Maddalena's,  the  long  black  tresses 


114  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

of  the  woman  lying  in  disorder  about  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"Who's  there?"  cried  Benoit  in  a  sleepy  voice. 

I  had  already  shut  the  door  and  started  to  go. 
I  wanted  to  escape — that  was  my  one  instinctive 
desire.  I  was  afraid,  afraid  of  the  monstrous 
secret  I  had  unwittingly  discovered.  I  had  up 
to  that  moment  not  dreamed  of  the  possibility  of 
a  thing  like  that.  How  in  Heaven's  name  could  I 
so  much  as  suspect  this  relationship  ?  These  two 
had  never  been  other  than  indifferent  toward 
each  other;  they  were  even  hostile.  Had  I  the 
right  to  suspect?  Claude  was  dead,  and  his  death 
had  broken  the  fraternal  bonds  that  had,  against 
their  wills  (I  had  seen  this  with  my  own  eyes) 
constrained  Benoit  and  Maddalena  to  live  to- 
gether on  terms  of  at  least  apparent  friendliness. 
After  Claude's  death  Benoit  might  easily  have 
married  his  sister-in-law  had  he  wished.  This 
sort  of  thing  is  often  done  for  the  purpose  of 
simplifying  the  management  of  the  property  and 
for  the  sake  of  the  children.  Even  if  he  had  made 
her  his  mistress  he  would  in  no  way  have  been 
wronging  his  dead  brother.  True,  but  for  how 
long  had  Maddalena  been  his  mistress?  Perhaps 
she  had  been  in  his  arms  on  that  stormy  night 
she  remained  at  the  chalet,  the  night  of  the  mur- 
der? I  could  not  forget  the  picture  of  those  two 
heads  on  the  bolster. 

Old  Petronille  had  known.    That  was  the  ex- 


SUSPICION  115 

planation  of  her  last  effort  to  join  their  hands: 
it  was  her  desire  that  they  should  legalize  their 
guilty  love  through  the  sacred  ceremony  of  mar- 
riage. But  if  she  had  forgiven  them  and  wished 
them  to  marry  then  obviously  their  relations  had 
at  that  time  not  been  actually  "criminal."  She 
would  never  have  countenanced  that ! 

And  old  Jean-Pierre  had  known.  That  was  why 
he  went  off,  filled  with  speechless  disgust,  to  seek 
a  living  death  in  the  cellars  at  Hautecombe.  He, 
the  head  of  the  family,  would  have  turned  the  sin- 
ners out  of  his  house  if  he  had  suspected  their 
having  betrayed  Claude  while  he  was  alive.  No, 
I  had  no  right  to  suspect  the  couple  of  criminal 
behavior  in  the  past.  Their  affair  had  not  begun 
until  after  Claude's  death.  It  was  bad  enough 
at  best.  But  perhaps  Etienne  had  made  this  dis- 
covery, or  suspected  some -part  of  the  truth? 

I  made  my  way  rapidly  back  to  my  chalet,  oc- 
cupied with  these  thoughts  and  determined  to  tell 
no  one  what  I  had  seen. 

Early  next  morning,  just  before  we  set  out, 
Benoit  brought  me  the  cartridges. 

"Maddalena  left  these  for  you.  She  didn't 
have  time  to  bring  them  all  the  way  up.  She 
had  to  go  down  again." 

Though  I  had  asked  no  questions  he  went  to 
great  trouble  to  establish  an  alibi.  By  his  inquisi- 
tive expression  I  saw  that  he  was  trying  to  iden- 
tify his  nocturnal  visitor;  he  was  not  altogether 


116  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

reassured  until  he  saw  Etienne  come  up  to  him 
and  behave  in  a  natural  and  unconcerned 
manner.  As  Benoit  turned  to  go,  I  called  him 
back  and,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eye,  said: 

"By  the  way,  Benoit,  I  advise  you  to  turn  the 
key  in  your  lock." 

He  showed  some  confusion  but  remained  master 
of  himself  as  I  added: 

"If  I  were  you  I  would  keep  an  eye  on  Etienne 
— er — why  don't  you  marry  Maddalena?" 

Far  from  taking  offence,  he  seemed  grateful. 

"I've  asked  her  to  marry  me,  but  she  doesn't 
want  to." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  of  the  children." 

"I  should  think  that  was  a  reason  for  marrying. 
It  would — regularize — the  situation " 

"Maybe.    Maybe  it  would " 

Then  he  stalked  off  to  look  after  his  cows.  Was 
my  advice  sound?  I  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
afraid  of  Etienne 's  investigations,  as  much  for 
his  sake  as  for  that  of  the  fickle  Maddalena,  whose 
fidelity  to  the  memory  of  her  murdered  husband 
had  lasted  so  short  a  time.  Their  affair  may 
even  have  antedated  Petronille's  death;  it  cer- 
tainly explained  the  dying  woman's  actions. 

On  leaving  the  Maurienne  after  the  close  of  the 
season  and  returning  to  Chambery  I  had  reason 
to  hope  that  Etienne  would  quietly  accept  the 
mystery  of  his  father's  death.  Had  I  succeeded 


SUSPICION  117 

in  convincing  him  that  it  was  an  accident,  and  not 
murder,  and  consequently  carried  out  the  almost 
testamentary  last  wishes  of  Jean-Pierre?  In  talk- 
ing with  the  boy  I  had  always  started  with  that 
hypothesis.  But  what  if  the  lad  should  discover 
the  relationship  between  his  mother  and  Benott? 
This  worried  me,  and  the  Couvert  house  from  that 
time  on  became  a  house  of  mystery,  the  scene  of 
a  portentous  drama. 


CHAPTEE  VI 

THE  CHAMOIS'  BEVENGE 

WHEN  I  returned  to  Bessans  the  next  season — 
two  years  after  the  murder — there  was  no  visible 
change  in  the  house,  but  I  unconsciously  looked 
for  phantoms.  Like  dogs,  whose  instinct  is  guided 
by  a  thousand  indications  in  their  pursuit  of  game, 
we  human  beings  are  sometimes  mysteriously 
guided  in  our  relations  with  our  fellow  men,  and 
unknowingly  discover  the  deepest-hidden  spir- 
itual phenomena.  Yet  what  can  we  actually  do 
without  self-evident  proofs?  The  novelist  has 
recourse  to  the  facile  expedient  of  looking  into 
the  minds  of  his  characters :  he  is  able  to  reveal 
to  us  their  inmost  thoughts.  But  how  does  he 
know?  Where  did  he  learn  those  thoughts?  We 
ordinary  beings,  deprived  of  the  infinite  resources 
of  the  writer  of  fiction,  are  necessarily  confined 
to  an  interpretation  of  the  facts  and  a  record  of 
spoken  words.  In  this  particular  family  tragedy 
words  have  been  of  practically  no  use  to  me.  I 
have  had  to  read  faces,  observe  attitudes,  trans- 
late and  explain  silences. 

Benoit  and  Maddalena  had  not  accepted  my 
advice :  they  continued  to  live  together  as  before, 
just  as  they  had  resisted  the  solemn  wordless  ob- 

118 


THE  CHAMOIS'  REVENGE  119 

jurgation  of  Petronille.  I  attributed  this  obsti- 
nacy to  the  superstitious  character  of  the  Italian. 
Possibly  she  believed  that  in  remaining  Benoit's 
mistress  she  was  doing  less  violence  to  Claude's 
memory  than  in  re-marrying;  or  perhaps  she 
feared  Etienne's  resentment.  She  treated  her 
son  with  marked  respect,  either  because  she  had 
once  seen  in  him  a  potential  priest,  or  because  she 
feared  his  ever-watchful  eyes  and  keen  quick 
judgment.  Later  on  I  learned  the  real  reason  for 
the  poor  creature's  refusal. 

I  wondered  whether  she  would  be  able  to  keep 
their  secret  at  home.  Their  life  in  common  was 
after  all  a  promiscuous  affair ;  could  such  a  liaison 
be  effectively  hidden?  Well,  it  had  been  hidden 
from  me  for  a  long  time,  and  revealed  only  by 
sheer  accident.  But  was  it  an  accident?  Per- 
haps we  are  wrong  in  using  that  word  to  account 
for  those  unexpected  circumstances,  those  fatal 
chances  which,  according  to  Joseph  de  Maistre, 
reveal  criminals.  Might  not  the  same  accident 
have  happened  in  the  case  of  Etienne?  For 
Etienne  knew.  I  can't  explain  how  or  why,  but 
of  this  I  was  positive.  The  year  before  I  had  left 
him  in  a  state  of  tranquillity  and  confidence;  on 
my  return  I  found  him  preoccupied,  irritable,  sus- 
picious. All  the  ground  I  had  won  was  lost,  and 
I  should  have  to  begin  all  over  again  if  I  intended 
to  keep  my  promise  to  Jean-Pierre.  Etienne 
must  have  known,  otherwise  why  this  complete 


120  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

change?  How  else  explain  his  avoidance  not  of 
his  uncle  Benoit  (he  never  had  much  to  do  with 
him)  but  of  his  mother?  Something  had  occurred 
between  mother  and  son,  something  so  portentous 
as  to  render  any  explanation  between  them  im- 
possible. 

I  spent  one  day  at  Bessans  and  then  went  on  up 
to  my  chalet.  Michel  Burnin  was  laid  up  with 
rheumatism  and  I  lacked  one  beater.  To  my  great 
surprise,  Benoit  offered  to  take  Michel's  place. 
"What  about  your  cattle,  Benoit!" 
"Rina  and  Jean-Marie  will  look  after  them." 
I  was  tempted  to  refuse.  I  didn't  like  the  idea 
of  having  nephew-  and  uncle  together  with  me. 
The  good  fellowship  and  friendliness  of  my  little 
community  would  doubtless  be  troubled,  as  it  had 
been  last  season-  before  I  had  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  Etienne.  But  I  accepted  his  offer. 
There  is  in  us  all,  an  instinct  of  curiosity,  a  desire1 
to  know,  to  see  pass  before  us  the  spectacle  of 
human  drama,  that  is  almost  irresistible.  Some- 
times, perhaps,  we  think  we  can  prevent  its  con- 
summation, though  we  may  secretly  not  wish  to, 
preferring  rather  to  stand  by  and  learn  what  will 
happen  next.  So  far  as  I  was  concerned,  it  was 
my  intention  to  carry  out  in  this  fashion  my  prom- 
ise to  Jean-Pierre.  I  would  watch  Etienne  as 
he  spied  on  Benoit. 

Benoit  was,  as  always,  the  same  quiet,  impassi- 
ble, self-sufficing  man,  even  though  he  realized  he 


THE  CHAMOIS'  REVENGE 

was  the  object  of  a  determined  siege:  he  kept 
watch  over  his  preserves,  knowing  well  that  no 
one  could  advance  beyond  the  ramparts  he  had 
thrown  up  about  him.  He  was  especially  good 
at  hunting  and  this  seemed  to  me  the  more  ex- 
traordinary as  he  had  had  no  occasion  to  make 
use  of  his  skill  during  the  course  of  his  every-day 
existence  as  cowherd  and  cheese-maker. 

One  day  he  was  making  his  way  down  a  steep 
declivity,  quickly  and  skillfully,  planting  his  heels 
in  the  loose  earth  and  carrying  a  forty-kilo  buck 
on  his  shoulders.  He  came  down  over  the  slope 
with  Etienne  and  when  I  was  within  hailing  dis- 
stance  I  gave  way  to  my  admiration: 

"Good  work,  Benoit!  Why,  you're  stronger 
even  that  your  brother  Claude." 

When  I  lifted  the  animal  I  realized  that  my 
praise  was  by  no  means  excessive. 

"That  was  a  good  shot  of  yours,"  he  muttered 
between  his  teeth  without  looking  at  me.  He  then 
bent  over  the  chamois. 

I  had  turned  to  Etienne. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  your  father  he  had  a 
chamois  over  his  shoulders.  I  remember  seeing 
him  as  he  walked  down  the  mountain  with  the 
chamois '  head  showing  above  his  own.  He  looked 
for  all  the  world  like  Bacchus  crowned  with  vine- 
leaves." 

The  moment  I  had  spoken  I  realized  my  com- 
parison was  scarcely  tactful,  but  the  ex-seminarist 


122  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

was  not  enough,  of  a  classicist  to  understand  the 
last  allusion.  I  beat  a  hasty  retreat  and  turned 
to  Benoit. 

"You  remember.  You  must  have  seen  him,  on 
his  way  down  to  Bonneval?" 

"I?  No!"  Benoit  was  intent  on  the  chamois, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  animal's  hide. 

Maddalena  continued  as  before  to  bring  up  sup- 
plies to  our  chalet,  and  to  Bina  and  Jean-Marie 
at  theirs.  At  my  chalet  she  of  course  saw  Etienne 
and  her  brother-in-law.  I  dare  not  say  "her 
lover,"  for  there  was  nothing  in  their  behavior 
to  arouse  the  least  suspicion  in  the  minds  of  my 
beaters. 

It  was  Benoit 's  business  to  do  errands  down 
in  the  Valley.  One  night  he  disappeared  and 
next  morning  he  was  not  on  hand  for  the  hunt. 
I  could  imagine  the  reason  for  his  absence:  he 
was  forty-five  and  a  victim  of  the  flesh,  just  as 
Etienne  was  a  victim  of  the  mental  torture  of 
suspicion. 

Maddalena,  I  observed,  was  meantime  failing: 
her  face  had  turned  the  color  of  parchment.  She 
came  all  the  way  up  to  the  chalet  occasionally,  es- 
corted by  the  daughter  of  Serafin  Euffin,  our  cook. 
She  was  a  pretty  girl,  that  child,  not  the  usual 
brunette  type  of  the  district  for  she  had  lovely 
auburn  hair — the  incarnation  of  youth,  brightness, 
happiness.  What  more  natural  than  that  she 
should  pay  an  occasional  visit  to  her  father? 


THE  CHAMOIS'  REVENGE  123 

She  captivated  us  all.  She  wore  pretty  clothes 
and  loved  flowers.  She  would  appear  on  the  scene 
with  a  charming  black  tulle  head-dress,  from 
which  hung  a  pink  or  cerise  ribbon  floating  out 
behind  her  as  she  walked.  She  would  play  in 
the  fields  and  pick  white  chrysanthemums  and 
violet  asters  which  she  made  into  great  bouquets 
for  our  chalet,  saving  out  enough  to  put  in  her 
waist  or  hair.  I  soon  discovered  that  all  these 
mano3uvres  were  directed  at  one  of  our  number 
and  one  alone :  at  Etienne.  Etienne,  the  youngest 
of  us  was  thus  favored,  but  though  he  was  polite 
to  the  girl,  he  was  not  in  the  least  aware  that  he 
was  the  object  of  her  attentions.  But  women 
are  naturally  more  intuitive,  and  Maddalena 
promptly  realized  the  girl's  feelings.  One  day 
she  came  to  me  and  pointing  to  Etienne  and 
Melanie,  said: 

''They  ought  to  marry." 

"Your  boy  is  still  very  young." 

"He's  going  on  nineteen." 

"But  what  about  his  vocation?  His  studies  at 
the  Seminary?" 

"He's  forgotten  all  about  that.  Yo'-i  speak  to 
him  about  the  girl,  Monsieur  1'Avocat.  He'll  lis- 
ten to  you." 

This  was  not  unreasonable,  and  I  had  only  to 
look  at  Melanie  to  agree  to  the  proposal.  And 
yet — why  should  it  shock  me  simply  because  it 
had  come  from  Maddalena?  It  was  of  course  she 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

who  had  induced  Melanie  to  come  up  with  her.  She 
had  brought  the  girl  in  order  to  divert  Etienne 's 
attention ;  she  knew  that  the  boy  suspected.  This 
much  I  could  divine  from  her  hypocritical  words. 

On  the  other  hand,  had  not  Jean-Pierre  made 
a  like  request  in  asking  me  to  look  after  Etienne  ? 
Was  it  not  my  duty  to  see  that  the  boy  should 
enjoy  his  youth,  which  he  now  seemed  to  have 
forgotten?  For  the  boy's  sake  ought  I  not  to 
act  on  Maddalena's  suggestion?  Ought  I  not, 
so  far  as  I  could,  to  do  my  best  to  avoid  an  im- 
minent catastrophe? 

"But  what  about  you?"  I  said  suddenly  to 
Claude 's  widow.  1 1  Why  don 't  you  marry  again  ? ' ' 

She  was  struck  dumb.  I  saw  at  once  that 
Benoit  had  not  told  her  of  my  visit  the  year 
before. 

"At  my  age?"  she  murmured. 

"You're  not  old,  Maddalena,  and  you  don't 
have  to  look  far  for  a  husband." 

She  hung  her  head  like  a  naughty  child.  Maybe 
it  was  embarrassment,  and  not  a  sense  of  guilt? 
I  did  not  care  to  press  the  point  and  therefore 
promised  to  speak  to  Etienne.  I  liked  little 
Melanie  and  I  admired  the  disdainful  (or  hard- 
hearted) Etienne.  She  had  that  clear-cut  medal- 
lion-like profile  so  often  found  in  Bessans,  a 
heritage,  it  is  said,  of  the  long  Saracen  occupa- 
tion, for  it  is  seen  nowhere  else  in  Savoy.  She 
was  saddened  by  the  pathetic  failure  of  her  pretty 


THE  CHAMOIS'  REVENGE  125 

advances,  and  a  tinge  of  melancholy  lent  to  her 
features  an  inexplicable  quiet  charm  not  unlike 
the  refrains  in  certain  songs  that  linger  long  on 
the  final  notes. 

It  was  not  necessary  for  me  to  intervene.  What 
purpose  could  my  intervention  have  served?  I 
really  can't  say. 

An  incident  occurred  one  day  when  we  were 
hunting,  the  extraordinary  importance  of  which 
quite  escaped  me  at  the  time.  This  incident,  which 
I  shall  relate  in  some  detail,  was  to  result  in 
Etienne's  embarking  upon  an  entirely  new  ven- 
ture, infinitely  more  dangerous  and  tragic  than 
that  of  his  efforts  to  discover  his  father's  mur- 
derer. 

I  started  out  with  a  light  heart.  It  was  a 
beautiful  day,  cloudless  and  crystal  clear.  I 
found  a  good  hiding-place,  just  where  the  rocky 
cliff  of  the  mountain  rises  up  in  a  sheer  mass 
before  dipping  down  on  the  other  side  into  the 
Valley.  I  took  my  position  on  a  small  level 
stretch  of  earth,  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  pyra- 
mid of  stone.  A  herd  of  chamois,  frightened  by 
the  cries  of  the  beaters,  scampered  out  from  be- 
hind the  alder  bushes  and  made  for  the  heights. 

A  moment  before,  not  twenty  paces  away,  I 
had  caught  sight  of  a  single  chamois  silhouetted 
against  the  ridge.  He  could  not  see  me  because 
of  the  rocks  between  us,  and  the  wind  carried 
my  scent  in  the  opposite  direction.  My  loaded 


126  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

rifle  was  on  the  grass  at  my  side.  Without  a 
moment's  hesitation  I  snatched  it  up  and  took 
aim.  The  animal  was  at  my  mercy.  And  yet  I 
could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  shoot.  A  feeling 
of  respect  and,  I  might  almost  say,  admiration, 
had  quite  taken  possession  of  me. 

I  had  often  observed,  through  my  field-glasses, 
the  charming  antics  of  these  animals  on  the  snow, 
their  mad  pranks  and  extraordinary  quadrilles. 
I  had  marvelled  at  the  strength  and  agility  with 
which  they  scaled  vertical  walls  of  rock ;  the  rigid- 
ity of  their  hoofs  that  gripped  the  narrowest  pro- 
jection like  spurs  of  steel;  and  their  vertiginous 
descents  into  the  deepest  chasms  But  this  lone 
chamois,  standing  so  close  to  me,  indifferent  and 
unafraid,  revealed  to  me  a  new  aspect  of  the 
animal.  In  repose,  I  was  able  to  study  his  pro- 
portions and  the  loveliness  of  his  lines.  This  one 
was  of  medium  size  though,  standing  as  he  did 
upon  his  four  black  hoofs,  he  gave  me  an  impres- 
sion of  sculptural  solidity  on  a  large  scale.  His 
summer  coat  was  tawny,  merging  into  red,  with  a 
belt  of  white  round  the  belly.  I  could  clearly 
distinguish  the  heaving  of  his  flanks  as  he  stood 
inhaling  the  clear  air  or  lowering  his  head  to 
nibble  a  tuft  of  grass.  The  horns,  black  as  ebony 
and  curling  backward  forming  a  kind  of  hook, 
gave  the  head  a  proud  look,  as  a  high  head-dress 
puts  the  finishing  touch  to  a  woman's  face.  As 
he  had  nothing  to  fear,  his  ears  lay  back  negli- 


THE  CHAMOIS'  REVENGE  127 

gently  and  his  nostrils  sniffed  the  soft  wind. 
Occasionally  his  black  eyes  would  fasten  on  wood- 
cutters working  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  in  the 
valley  far  below.  This  sight  was  not  unfamiliar 
to  him,  and  gave  him  no  cause  for  alarm.  Domi- 
nating this  magnificent  panorama  he  seemed  to 
consider  the  rock  a  pedestal  for  him  and  him 
alone.  When  he  walked  he  was  like  a  lord  sur- 
veying his  domain.  I  continued  to  gaze  at  him 
and  I  endowed  him  with  a  soul:  he  had  lost  his 
identity  as  a  mere  animal,  and  become  a  sort  of 
intangible  divinity.  So  long  as  he  remained 
where  he  was  I  knew  I  could  never  bring  myself 
to  kill  him.  I  would  as  soon  have  shot  a  man  or 
desecrated  the  statue  of  a  god. 

Then  the  wind  shifted.  At  once  his  ears  shot 
forward,  his  nostrils  distended,  there  was  terror 
in  his  beautiful  black  eyes,  and  from  his  throat 
came  a  heavy  and  prolonged  hissing  sound.  I 
had  ample  time  to  observe  each  of  these  phe- 
nomena. But  what  followed  I  could  not  clearly 
see :  that  phantom  leaped  so  swiftly  that  I  felt  the 
wind  of  it  against  my  cheek.  In  an  instant  the 
chamois  had  become  my  enemy.  I  put  my  rifle 
to  my  shoulder  and  aiming  almost  at  random, 
pulled  the  trigger.  The  animal  disappeared  be- 
hind the  rock;  I  was  afraid  I  had  missed  him.  A 
moment  after  he  reappeared  on  an  ice-field  and 
scampered  away  full  speed  over  the  shining  snow. 
But  he  was  using  only  three  feet:  the  right  fore- 


128  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

front,  broken  at  the  joint  turned  like  a  mill-wheel. 
I  exhausted  in  quick  succession  all  my  cartridges 
but  failed  to  make  another  hit.  Wounded  as  he 
was,  he  cleared  an  especially  difficult  precipice. 
I  could  not  leave  the  wounded  animal  in  that  state, 
and  the  chase  began  in  deadly  earnest. 

By  a  clever  manoeuvre,  Vimines  and  I  were 
able  to  take  possession  of  the  heights  above, 
whence  we  would  force  the  chamois  down  to  the 
beaters  who  were  ready  for  him.  He  did  what 
we  expected  him  to  do  and  passed  within  range 
of  Pierre  Laval,  but  Laval,  who  was  lying  in  wait, 
shot  and  missed.  Though  the  animal  showed  the 
most  remarkable  signs  of  vitality,  we  all  knew 
that  he  could  not,  after  the  loss  of  so  much  blood, 
prolong  his  resistance  indefinitely.  He  had  dis- 
appeared from  our  view  and  we  could  only  sur- 
mise where  he  had  hidden.  We  were  grouped 
together  against  the  mass  of  rock,  and  there 
through  our  glasses  we  examined  each  rocky  ledge 
and  clump  of  bushes  that  might  possibly  harbor 
the  chamois.  The  wall  behind  us  consisted  of  a 
series  of  stone  ledges  with  here  and  there  a 
stretch  of  grass  and  clumps  of  junipers.  One  of 
us  caught  sight  of  the  chamois  high  above  us, 
standing  on  a  slight  projection,  a  foreshortened 
silhouette  against  the  bright  sky.  His  horns 
seemed  to  hang  out  into  the  azure  vaulting;  his 
neck,  craned  forward,  betrayed  terror.  For  some 
time  he  scanned  the  horizon  and  then,  no  doubt 


THE  CHAMOIS'  REVENGE  129 

worn  out,  he  lay  down.  But  the  neck  was  still 
arched,  the  eyes  watchful.  Had  it  not  been  for 
this  we  would  have  concluded  that  he  had  lain 
down  to  die. 

"He'll  never  get  up  again,"  said  the  least  ex- 
perienced member  of  the  party.  But  the  others 
knew  that  a  chamois  will  rise  and  face  his  enemy 
up  to  the  very  end. 

I  had  once  seen  a  buck  with  both  forelegs  broken 
actually  rise  and  face  his  pursuers.  There  is  no 
braver  or  hardier  animal. 

Benoit,  who  had  been  handed  a  rifle,  scaled  the 
wall.  He,  too,  was  silhouetted  high  above  us  as 
he  approached  his  prey.  As  yet  the  animal  had 
not  caught  sight  of  the  man. 

We  were  mute  witnesses  of  a  tense  drama:  a 
murderer  and  his  victim  were  on  the  stage  before 
us.  A  moment  later  we  were  able  to  show  Benoit 
by  means  of  signs  the  place  where  the  chamois 
had  lain  down.  He  must  at  any  cost  put  an  end  to 
the  beast's  misery.  His  approach  was  made  with 
the  greatest  caution,  but  the  chamois  had  scented 
danger,  and  the  next  instant  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 
He  stood  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice  and  peered 
down.  At  the  same  moment  we  heard  the  crack 
of  Benoit 's  rifle  and  saw  the  chamois  lunge  into 
the  abyss.  This  time,  surely,  he  was  done  for! 
He  had  jumped  just  in  time  to  miss  the  shot,  and 
landed  safely  on  another  rock;  but  the  next  shot 
was  effective,  and  he  fell.  And  once  again  he 


130  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

rose  up,  standing  not  on  three  feet  but  on  two, 
and  succeeded  in  dragging  himself  behind  some 
bushes. 

The  gathering  dusk  and  the  protecting  bushes 
were  in  the  animal's  favor.  The  chase  had  lasted 
all  day  and  our  search  was  fruitless.  Night  had 
come  and  all  the  subtle  and  malignant  sorcery  of 
the  mountain  combined  to  save  the  chamois.  We 
were  reluctantly  forced  to  postpone  the  last  act 
of  this  tragedy  until  dawn. 

Next  morning  at  the  first  signs  of  gray  on  the 
horizon  I  set  out  with  Benoit  and  Etienne  to  find 
the  animal.  He  had  gone.  He  had  made  heroic 
efforts  and  been  able  to  gain  the  upper  gorge  of 
a  cascade  not  far  off,  where  he  had  sought  to 
bathe  his  wounds  with  the  fresh  water  of  melted 
snows.  When  we  came  upon  him  he  was  lying 
down,  his  neck,  as  before,  arched  in  an  attitude 
of  alarmed  vigilance.  The  moment  he  caught 
sight  of  us  he  actually  stood  up  and  faced  us, 
calmly  watching  our  approach.  His  nostrils  quiv- 
ered, but  he  made  no  sound.  During  our  pursuit 
the  day  before  he  had  cried  out  to  warn  his  com- 
rades of  danger  but  in  the  presence  of  death  he 
maintained  a  disdainful  silence.  His  soft  black 
eyes  were  riveted  on  us  in  an  expression  of  almost 
human  anguish.  He  was  ready  to  accept  his 
fate,  but  he  would  not  surrender.  I  read  in  that 
expression  his  regret  for  tranquil  lakes  and  un- 
trod  fields,  the  wind  from  off  the  glacier,  the 


THE  CHAMOIS'  REVENGE  131 

delicate  scented  pasture,  the  infinite  peace  of  the 
mountain — of  all  of  which  man  had  at  last  come  to 
rob  him.  This  I  imagined  at  the  time,  but  actually 
there  was  no  regret  for  the  past,  only  defiance  and 
rage  and  a  challenge  to  battle. 

He  would  not  give  up.  When  the  exasperated 
Benoit  came  near  he  made  ready  to  charge. 
Benoit  took  firm  hold  of  his  horns,  but  the  animal 
was  the  stronger.  In  the  pink  dawn,  by  the  side 
of  that  rose-tinted  cascade,  they  were  like  a  faun 
and  a  goat  performing  a  festive  dance  in  honor  of 
Bacchus.  Finally,  to  make  an  end  of  the  ghastly 
business,  the  man  put  his  powerful  hands  round 
the  animal 's  neck  and  choked  him.  The  chamois 
fell  heavily.  To  his  dying  gasp  he  stood  his 
ground. 

I  had  followed  every  step  of  the  struggle  with 
the  greatest  admiration  and  interest.  I  could  not 
help  endowing  the  victim  with  a  human  soul,  and 
I  could  not  rid  myself  of  the  notion  that  his  suffer- 
ing was  likewise  human.  I  felt  almost  as  if  I  had 
been  an  accomplice  in  the  murder,  and  as  I  bent 
over  the  carcass  I  felt  a  need  to  confess  having 
committed  a  barbaric  atrocity.  Turning  to  Etienne 
to  tell  him  of  my  hypocritical  regrets  I  was  sur- 
prised, and  then  terrified,  by  the  change  in  his 
expression.  His  eyes  were  those  of  one  who  has 
been  hypnotized.  They  were  riveted  upon  his 
uncle  Benoit  who,  smiling  strangely,  was  calcu- 
lating the  weight  and  value  of  the  chamois.  As 


182  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

if  by  some  telepathic  flash  I  could  read  the  boy's 
mind,  feel  the  throbbing  of  his  heart,  and  divine 
the  anguish  that  had  taken  possession  of  him. 
The  masterly  way  in  which  Benoit  had  seized  and 
strangled  the  chamois  had  brutally  called  up  the 
picture  of  his  father's  murder.  Claude  had  met 
his  death  in  the  very  same  manner! 

And  by  the  same  hand!  This  is  what  flashed 
through  our  minds,  without  reason  and  without 
proof ;  it  had  come  to  us  in  a  picture.  When  the 
boy's  excitement  momentarily  subsided  he  turned 
to  me  and  saw  that  I  was  watching  him  intently. 
I  am  positive  he  realized  that  I  had  surprised  his 
secret.  But  he  said  nothing,  and  by  degrees  re- 
assumed  his  normal  manner. 

Benoit  suspected  nothing  of  this  mute  drama: 
he  was  busy  with  the  chamois.  He  took  an  ob- 
vious pleasure  in  taking  out  the  entrails  and  filling 
the  carcass  with  preservative  nettles.  This  done, 
he  bound  the  feet  together  and  slung  the  chamois 
over  his  shoulders.  The  blood  trickled  down  his 
neck  and  over  his  hands. 

We  followed  Benoit  in  silence.  In  front  of  the 
chalet,  now  reflecting  the  glory  of  the  newly  risen 
sun,  were  gathered  our  companions,  ready  to  cele^ 
brate  our  dishonorable  victory.  The  mule  was 
there,  too,  though  no  one  had  thought  of  unload- 
ing his  pack.  We  could  see  fruits  and  the  de- 
licious brown  crusts  of  bread  in  the  half-open 
panniers.  Maddalena  greeted  us  gleefully,  or 


THE  CHAMOIS'  REVENGE  133 

rather  Benoit,  her  man.  And  little  Melanie,  her 
cheeks  fresh  as  ever,  her  bright  ribbon  floating 
in  the  wind,  tried  her  best  to  catch  Etienne's  eye. 
But  the  boy  paid  no  attention  to  her. 

I  was  no  longer  in  the  world  of  actuality;  the 
scene  was  that  in  which  the  ghost  of  the  poisoned 
king  appears  to  Hamlet  at  Elsinore.  Why,  the 
play-scene  had  just  been  enacted,  and  a  dumb 
animal,  strangely  mixed  up  in  the  troupe,  played 
his  part  with  the  murderer.  Was  this  Ophelia 
before  me,  with  her  garland  of  flowers,  doomed 
to  sorrow  and  despair?  Were  this  infamous 
couple  the  usurper  Claudius  and  his  accomplice 
Gertrude  f  And  was  Hamlet  now  about  to  wreak 
vengeance  upon  his  incestuous  mother  and  fratri- 
cide uncle  ? 

I  did  my  best  to  dispel  this  hideous  invasion 
of  ghosts,  for  I  had  no  intention  of  giving  in  to 
an  absurd  hallucination,  the  result  no  doubt  of  my 
having  read  too  many  old  books!  Was  I  not  in 
the  mountains,  in  the  company  of  faithful  friends, 
with  the  members  of  the  Convert  family  whom  I 
had  always  known  as  peaceable  home-loving  folk? 

I  burst  out  laughing.  The  others  must  have 
thought  I  was  expressing  satisfaction  over  the 
morning's  hunt.  A  damnable  hunt  it  was,  in  which 
the  chamois,  struggling  up  to  the  very  moment  of 
his  death,  had  at  last  revealed  the  identity  of 
Claude's  murderer. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AN  ETHICAL,  PBOBLEM 

THAT  afternoon  we  set  out  on  a  relatively  short 
chase,  in  pursuit  of  a  stray  chamois  that  was 
not  far  off  in  the  underbrush.  I  took  my  place 
at  a  post  from  which  I  could  see  nothing  of  the 
hunt,  for  I  was  determined  to  set  my  thoughts  in 
order. 

In  spite  of  myself  these  persisted  in  focussing 
upon  one  point :  there  was  no  longer  a  doubt  that 
the  intimacy  of  Benoit  and  Maddalena  antedated 
the  murder.  Claude  had  himself  told  me  as  much 
the  day  I  had  said  to  him,  " Don't  come  back  till 
morning.  Sleep  at  Bessans.  Your  wife  will  be 
glad,"  and  he  had  replied,  "Oh,  my  wife!"  I 
could  not  forget  the  intonation  of  his  voice.  Until 
then  he  had  always  treated  her  with  affectionate 
familiarity,  teasing  and  joking  with  her  and  mak- 
ing fun  of  her  pious  pilgrimages.  Then  came 
this  sudden  change :  he  had  suspected  something. 

On  the  night  of  the  murder  Benoit  surely  knew 
of  his  brother's  trip  down  the  mountain,  as  the 
latter  must  have  passed  in  front  of  the  lower 
chalet.  And,  a  more  significant  point :  Maddalena 
must  have  met  her  husband  on  the  way  up.  "What 

134 


AN  ETHICAL  PROBLEM  135 

can  have  passed  between  them?  They  must  have 
separated  on  unfriendly  terms,  as  he  had  not 
asked  to  borrow  the  mule  to  carry  the  animal, 
preferring  to  hire  another  at  Bessans.  "Was  there 
a  quarrel  or  some  sort  of  misunderstanding1?  Can 
he  have  hinted  at  her  relations  with  Benoit? 
Might  she  afterward  have  gone  straight  to  her 
lover  with  news  of  the  quarrel?  Perhaps,  and 
Benoit,  fearing  the  consequences  of  Jean-Pierre 's 
wrath,  not  to  mention  Claude's,  may  have  de- 
termined to  do  away  with  his  brother,  and  gone 
about  it  immediately. 

I  pictured  him  setting  forth  in  the  storm,  leav- 
ing Maddalena  alone  in  the  chalet — his  accom- 
plice, knowing  what  the  night  was  about  to  bring 
forth.  Benoit  finds  a  suitable  hiding-place  be- 
hind the  bushes  by  the  roadside,  where  it  runs 
parallel  with  the  stream,  between  Barmanere  and 
the  Bonneval  bridge.  There  he  lies  in  wait.  He 
will  be  able  to  see  by  the  light  of  Claude's  lantern ; 
he  must  have  one,  for  you  cannot  otherwise  travel 
by  night  with  a  mule.  The  dark  night  and  the 
heavy  rain  are  in  his  favor :  no  one  is  likely  to  be 
outdoors,  the  roads  are  deserted.  He  sees  the 
lantern  approach;  the  dog,  trotting  on  ahead, 
sniffs  Benoit  but  knows  him,  and  naturally  does 
not  bark  a  warning  to  his  master.  His  master? 
Is  not  the  whole  family  his  master?  He  knows 
Benoit  almost  as  well  as  he  does  Claude.  Why 
should  he  bark?  Benoit  allows  the  mule  to  pass 


136  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

on,  and  the  man  after  him.  Then,  at  a  bound,  he 
pounces  on  Claude  from  behind,  snatches  his 
lantern,  throws  it  away,  and  bringing  into  play 
that  marvelous  co-ordinated  strangle-hold  he  used 
on  the  chamois,  chokes  his  victim,  who  is  of 
course  unable  to  make  a  sound.  The  body  he 
then  throws  into  the  stream. 

The  whole  thing  is  over  in  a  few  seconds. 

The  doctor  who  examined  the  wounds  on  the 
dead  man's  neck  was  positive  that  only  a  very 
strong  man  could  have  done  the  deed.  There  was 
no  need  to  prove  the  physical  strength  of  Benoit 
Couvert. 

The  murderer  then  hastens  on  past  the  mule 
that  ambles  off  to  Bessans,  and  returns  to  his 
chalet.  It  is  not  a  long  trip  for  a  man  like  Benoit. 
Had  he  not  recently  made  a  similar  journey  by 
night  to  see  his  mistress?  He  returns  as  fast  as 
possible  in  order  to  join  Maddalena  who  has  not 
gone  to  sleep,  and  the  incestuous  couple  consum- 
mate in  sin  their  unspeakable  crime. 

Next  morning  at  dawn  she  starts  back.  In  the 
bosom  of  her  family  she  will  pretend  to  know 
nothing,  while  the  others  speculate  on  the  disap- 
pearance of  Claude,  and  the  return  of  the  mule 
without  him.  She  will  act  the  part  of  the  grieved 
wife  when  the  body  is  at  last  brought  home.  But 
she  will  leave  to  Claude's  mother  the  preparation 
of  the  bier  and  the  laying  out  of  the  body:  that 
she  will  not  dare  to  touch. 


AN  ETHICAL  PROBLEM  137 

How  clearly  can  we  read  each  gesture,  each 
glance,  when  once  we  have  the  clue! 

Up  on  the  mountain  Benoit  has  risen;  he  finds 
his  clothes  soaked  through  and  through.  He  hangs 
them  up  to  dry  in  the  morning  sun.  I  find  him 
there  at  work — suspicious  work! 

He  is  present  at  his  victim's  funeral,  and  there 
the  Judge  whispers  to  me :  ' '  See  all  these  people : 
the  murderer  is  surely  among  them."  And  he 
is,  one  of  the  most  prominent.  And  then  the 
inquest  and  the  long  fruitless  search.  Who  could 
have  suspected  incest  and  fratricide?  Who  would 
dream  of  accusing  Benoit  and  Maddalena?  They 
surely  are  immune  from  suspicion.  Is  it  not 
Benoit's  idea  to  marry  Maddalena  and  take 
Claude's  place?  But  she  refuses.  Why?  In 
order  to  divert  suspicion?  Is  it  a  belated  gleam 
of  respect  for  the  memory  of  her  defunct  hus- 
band? Perhaps  she  is  unable  to  face  Petronille, 
or  fears  the  wrath  of  Jean-Pierre,  who  is  un- 
favorably disposed  toward  such  a  union?  Or, 
finally,  is  it  not  rather  a  deep-rooted  religious 
fear  of  Hell,  whither  she  must  carry  her  remorse  ? 
After  Claude's  death  her  pilgrimages  cease;  she 
dares  not  go  to  confession,  and  before  marriage 
everyone  must  confess.  Yes,  that  explains  her 
refusal.  It  were  better  to  believe  her  guilty 
even  of  illicit  love. 

But  the  illicit  love  is  discovered.  Old  Petro- 
nille knows  of  it,  she  grieves  her  life  out  because 


138  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

of  it,  and  is  horror-stricken  at  the  crime.  She 
suspects  as  well  that  Claude's  murderer  is  in 
her  own  home,  and  is  sick  at  the  knowledge  that 
he  is  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  bone  of  her  bone.  And 
she  has  no  doubt  that  sin  and  crime  have  been 
committed  in  her  house  during  Claude's  lifetime. 
It  was  horrible  enough  in  the  eyes  of  the  saintly 
old  woman  that  Maddalena  should  be  guilty  of 
adultery ;  that  was  why  her  last  act  was  an  effort 
to  regularize  the  union. 

And  Jean-Pierre  had  guessed,  but  being  more 
perspicacious  than  his  wife  he  went  one  step 
further.  He  was  an  old  hand  at  legal  procedure 
and  knew  how  to  reach  a  logical  conclusion  in  his 
reasoning.  This  of  course  explained  his  belated 
and  apparently  reasonless  vocation.  What  other 
possible  motive  could  there  be  f  Why  else  should 
he  of  all  men  submit  to  the  discipline  of  a  monas- 
tery? Was  it  natural?  The  house  had  become 
unbearable  to  him.  But  I  could  not  make  out 
how  he  had  learned  the  facts.  At  any  rate,  he 
carried  off  his  secret  with  him,  and  the  atmos- 
phere of  good  fellowship  during  our  last  dinner 
was  not  sufficient  to  make  him  reveal  it  to  me. 
But  everything  he  said  and  did  proved  that  he 
knew:  his  disinheriting  Benoit  for  instance — > 
though  I  must  admit  he  did  the  same  to  the  inno- 
cent Jean-Marie.  But  could  he  have  suspected 
that  Jean-Marie  was  not  Claude's  child?  Could 
the  affair  be  traced  that  far  back?  Did  the  boy; 


AN  ETHICAL  PROBLEM  139 

really  resemble  Benoit?  I  had  not  noticed,  but 
I  determined  to  do  so  at  the  first  opportunity. 

Then  there  was  that  visit  to  the  Judge  at  Saint- 
Jean-de-Maurienne — that  was  significant.  He  is 
the  head  of  the  family,  he  cannot  deliver  his  own 
son  into  the  hands  of  justice;  on  the  other  hand, 
if  he  remains  at  home  he  will  become  Benoit's 
accomplice,  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  party  to 
the  crime.  He  must  leave  in  order  to  devote  his 
remaining  days  to  the  expiation  of  a  crime  com- 
mitted by  his  children.  But  he  intends  that  what 
he  was  unable  to  do  no  outsider  shall  do  for  him : 
before  he  disappears  he  does  everything  in  his 
power  to  prevent  further  investigations,  which 
might  lead  to  appalling  discoveries.  He  there- 
fore appeals  in  person  to  the  Judge,  asking  him 
to  close  the  case.  On  what  grounds?  On  the 
grounds  simply  that  no  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted ;  there  would  surely  have  been  a  clue  other- 
wise, and  no  clue  had  as  yet  come  to  light.  Claude 
had  no  enemies;  his  death  therefore  was  acci- 
dental. And  he  retires  with  this  white  lie  on  his 
lips,  a  lie  which  the  Judge,  already  at  his  wits' 
end,  is  only  too  ready  to  believe. 

There  is,  however,  one  disturbing  element.  In 
the  old  man's  house  is  another  restless,  inquisitive 
mind:  Etienne  burns  with  a  desire  to  avenge  his 
father.  He  must  be  satisfied,  convinced.  And  the 
boy  has  found  a  clue,  one  that  his  grandfather  had 
never  dreamed  of.  This  is  why  Jean-Pierre-had 


140  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

warned  me  of  the  lad's  extreme  susceptibility. 
He  asked  me  to  help  Etienne,  to  guide  and  be- 
friend him.  And  this  he  did  before  going  off  to 
bury  himself  alive. 

So  at  last  I  had  the  key  to  the  mystery:  it 
opened  every  door  and  I  was  able  to  peer  into  the 
darkest  chambers. 

Comfortably  settled  in  my  hiding-post,  effec- 
tively screened  by  a  wall  of  rock,  I  heard  the 
shouts  of  the  beaters,  but  I  had  no  wish  to  join 
in  the  chase.  The  idea  of  harrying  a  lone  chamois 
did  not  appeal  to  me. 

Another  drama  absorbed  all  my  attention:  an 
abyss  opened  at  my  feet.  I  recalled  how  once  I 
had  broken  through  a  bridge  of  snow  and  fallen 
into  the  crevasse.  Fortunately  the  rope  binding 
me  to  the  guide  and  porter  did  not  break,  and  I 
was  saved.  It  was  hard  work  climbing  out;  my 
hands  and  knees  slipped  over  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  ice,  and  when  I  looked  below  me  I  saw 
bluish  depths  without  end. 

And,  as  I  pondered  the  whole  matter  it  seemed 
as  if  I  was  again  in  that  gaping  chasm,  suspended 
over  a  bottomless  pit.  I  strove,  as  before,  to 
climb  up  to  the  light  of  day. 

It  was  clearly  my  duty  to  bring  the  culprits  to 
the  bar  of  justice.  Witnesses  are  the  eyes  and 
ears  of  the  law  and  have  no  right  to  refuse  their 
services.  But  to  whom  should  I  go  with  my  story  ? 


AN  ETHICAL  PROBLEM  141 

To  whom  confide  my  moral  certainty?  To  the 
Judge  at  Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne  or  simply  to 
Etienne,  proving  to  him  that  this  time  he  was 
on  the  right  track?  The  incident  of  Benoit's  wet 
clothes  would  be  enough.  Should  I  play  the 
Ghost  to  my  young  Hamlet? 

I  must  be  demented :  here  I  was  constructing  a 
whole  Shakespearian  drama  on  a  hypothesis  for 
which  I  have  no  proofs,  only  a  series  of  ingenious 
conjectures ;  I  had  built  up  a  structure  not  unlike 
that  of  Judge  Fonclair  when  he  tried  to  implicate 
my  beaters.  On  second  thoughts  I  realized  to 
what  an  extent  the  facts  had  become  colored  by 
my  imagination.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  quite 
unable  to  say  when  Maddalena  had  become 
Benoit's  mistress.  Claude's  "Oh,  my  wife!" 
might  mean  no  more  than  that  he  was  tired  of  her 
or  preferred  hunting  to  a  night  at  home.  It  may 
easily  have  meant  no  more  than  that.  And  then 
why  should  I  rashly  conclude  that  Benoit,  busy 
with  his  cattle  or  making  cheese,  had  actually 
seen  his  brother?  And  Maddalena  might  easily 
have  come  to  the  chalet  without  meeting  her  hus- 
band. I  knew,  too,  that  she  could  not  have  re- 
turned in  that  storm,  and  that  she  had  remained 
with  Benoit  as  a  matter  of  course.  At  that  time 
I  had  thought  they  were  scarcely  on  speaking 
terms.  If  they  were  on  terms  of  intimacy,  why, 
the  storm  had  merely  served  as  an  excellent  pre- 


142  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

text.  Benoit's  explanation  of  the  incident  was 
logical  and  clear.  During  the  legal  investigations 
I  had  insisted  that  no  one's  having  heard  the 
dog  bark  was  a  matter  of  no  importance,  because 
of  the  roaring  torrent,  the  late  hour,  and  the  dis- 
tance from  Barmanere.  Petronille's  dumb  prayer 
had  been  inspired  solely  by  her  moral  suscepti- 
bilities and  Jean-Pierre's  departure  was  explica- 
ble on  the  same  grounds.  There  was  also  without 
doubt  a  certain  impulsiveness  and  fantasy  in  his 
act  traceable  to  his  Maurienne  blood.  After  all, 
why  should  he  not  actually  believe  in  the  version 
of  accidental  death  which  he  had  gone  to  the  trou- 
ble of  laying  before  the  court?  As  regards  the 
distribution  of  his  property  it  was  not  unnatural, 
taking  into  account  the  universal  desire  among 
peasants  to  keep  land  in  the  family,  that  he  should 
disinherit  the  unmarried  Benoit  in  order  to  main- 
tain the  principle  of  primogeniture  in  favor  of 
Etienne,  Claude's  eldest  son. 

You  see  how  easy  it  was  to  destroy  the  hy- 
pothesis I  had  created.  Perhaps  this  was  due  to 
my  lawyer's  habit  of  defending  rather  than  accus- 
ing the  client.  But  the  moment  I  had  demolished 
my  case  I  was  faced  with  a  delicate  problem  in 
ethics.  You  see,  old  Jean-Pierre  was  my  client, 
too.  I  could  not  divulge  what  I  had  learned  from 
him  in  my  professional  capacity.  That  secret 
must  be  jealously  guarded.  But  this  was  pre- 
cisely the  keystone  to  my  latest  theory.  Every 


AN  ETHICAL  PROBLEM  143 

part  fitted  into  every  other:  eliminate  one  ele- 
ment and  nothing  remained.  For  example,  the 
detail  of  Benoit's  clothes — actually  the  only  fact 
in  the  chain  of  evidence — would  never  have  as- 
sumed the  slightest  importance  in  my  mind  with- 
out all  the  other  details.  No,  I  could  under  no  cir- 
cumstances accuse  Benoit  and  Maddalena,  or  even 
suspect  them,  as  I  had  no  means  of  proving  my 
assertions. 

Since  Etienne  had  promised  the  year  before  to 
share  with  me  his  worries  and  suspicions,  he  had 
not  once  confided  in  me. 

On  the  morning  that  we  returned  together  be- 
hind Benoit  who  was  carrying  the  chamois,  he 
had  made  no  reference  to  the  matters  that  I  knew 
were  occupying  all  his  attention.  This  might  be 
explained  by  the  fact  that  like  me,  he  was  sympa- 
thizing with  the  animal  that  had  shown  itself  so 
beautifully  courageous  in  its  struggle  with  the 
brutal  man.  Very  likely  I  had  exaggerated  the 
meaning  of  the  eager  expression  in  his  eyes.  It 
is  so  easy  to  misread  an  expression.  (I  really 
ought  to  be  on  my  guard  against  first  impres- 
sions !)  It  seemed  almost  as  though  I  had  a  mania 
for  dramatizing  life.  Was  it  because  I  had  spent 
so  much  time  in  this  tragic  Maurienne,  so  crowded 
with  history  and  legend,  sorcery  and  witchcraft? 

As  I  argued  the  case  for  and  against,  inclined 
sometimes  to  accuse  and  sometimes  to  exculpate, 
there  happened  to  me  what  oftens  happens  under 


144  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

similar  circumstances:  the  game  I  was  hunting 
surprised  me  at  my  pose.  Suddenly  I  saw  just 
under  me,  with  only  a  rock  and  a  tuft  of  junipers 
between  us,  the  very  animal  we  were  after.  Or 
rather,  I  saw  only  his  head,  with  his  long  curved 
black  horns  and  delicate  ears.  His  soft  eyes 
were  placidly  fixed  upon  me.  He  showed  no  sign 
of  fear,  and  it  seemed  as  though  he  knew  the 
state  of  my  troubled  conscience  and  relied  on  that 
to  escape  when  and  how  he  liked.  I  dared  not 
move  for  fear  of  blotting  out  this  singular  vision 
of  grim  irony.  I  thought  for  a  second  that  I  was 
the  victim  of  an  hallucination,  and  I  am  sure 
that  not  St.  Hubert  himself,  seeing  the  deer 
with  a  Crucifix,  could  have  been  more  sur- 
prised than  I  at  this  unexpected  tete-a-tete  with 
the  chamois.  Extraordinary  as  it  may  seem,  the 
animal  stood  and  continued  to  look  at  me.  Even 
now  I  sometimes  ask  myself  whether  the  duration 
of  our  tete-a-tete  was  not  exaggerated  by  my  over- 
heated imagination. 

Then  the  chamois  leaned  forward  and  I  could 
distinguish  his  neck  which  had  been  caught  be- 
tween two  branches  of  a  bush  and  held  tight  as 
with  two  human  hands — like  Claude's  neck  be- 
tween the  knotty  hands  of  Benoit. 

Men  who  have  such  visions  have  no  business 
hunting.  I  picked  up  my  rifle  and  took  aim.  To 
shoot  down  from  a  height  is  never  easy.  The 
confounded  animal  managed  to  extricate  himself 


AN  ETHICAL  PROBLEM  145 

and  dash  away.  I  can  see  him  now,  a  large,  dark, 
well-built  buck.  I  missed  him.  Perhaps  after  all 
he  was  only  a  ghost. 

"It  was  such  a  beautiful  chance!"  said  Vimi- 
nes  reproachfully. 

" Then  it  was  real?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  my  puzzled  com- 
panion. 

"A  real  chamois?" 

"I  should  think  it  was.  He  passed  across  our 
path  not  far  off,  but  shot  out  at  right  angles  when 
he  got  our  scent.  I  notice  you  fired." 

"Oh,  I  hardly  took  aim." 

I  did  not  tell  anyone  of  my  adventure ;  no  one 
would  have  believed  me. 

Maddalena  left  us  that  evening  to  return  to 
Bessans  in  company  with  little  Melanie  of  the 
pink  ribbons.  The  girl  carried  off  armfuls  of 
flowers  which  she  had  picked  during  the  day.  She 
turned  back  from  time  to  time  to  shout  to  her 
father  who,  busy  in  the  kitchen,  took  no  trouble 
to  answer  her.  She  was  of  course  trying  to  at- 
tract Etienne's  attention.  But  young  Hamlet 
showed  no  sign  of  interest  in  his  Ophelia.  He  was 
observing,  scrutinizing,  examining  every  move  of 
his  uncle  Benoit,  who,  ever  since  the  morning's 
adventure,  seemed  to  have  thrown  off  his  habitual 
moroseness,  far  from  suspecting  that  he  had 
finally  betrayed  himself.  The  last  stage  of  the 
pursuit  was  taking  place  under  my  own  roof. 


146  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

So  it  seemed  that  my  wild  suppositions  were 
not  wrong  after  all ;  and  suppositions,  when  they 
are  logical,  coherent,  and  precise,  are  as  good  as 
proofs.  The  murderer  was  here  in  our  midst  and 
the  victim's  son  was  on  his  trail.  Of  what  inter- 
est were  ordinary  hunts  compared  with  this  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PURSUIT 

No  time  was  lost  in  starting.  Indeed,  the  at- 
tack was  made  in  my  presence,  in  that  of  my  com- 
panions Vimines  and  Laval,  and  some  of  my 
beaters.  But  I  was  the  only  one  who  could  follow 
the  pursuit  and  understand  every  move. 

We  rested  for  a  day  and  made  use  of  the  extra 
time  to  inspect  every  rock  and  green  patch  that 
might  harbor  the  chamois.  We  scanned  through 
field-glasses  every  inch  of  a  large  rock  that  stood ' 
at  the  edge  of  a  chasm  two  or  three  hundred 
meters  wide  some  distance  off.  Antoine  Portaz 
insisted  he  had  seen  a  chamois  there. 

"How  could  he  have  climbed  up?"  asked  the 
sceptical  Laval. 

"Claude  Convert  did  it  once,"  replied  Antoine 
petulantly,  "and  he  was  only  a  man." 

"Claude  Convert?  Nonsense!  Only  crows  can 
go  up  there!" 

"It  was  the  year  before  he  died,"  insisted  the 
beater.  There  was  a  dispute  over  the  possibility 
of  making  the  ascent,  and  Portaz  turned  from  one 
to  the  other  in  quest  of  eye-witnesses,  every  one 
of  whom  backed  up  his  assertions. 

147 


148  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"What  a  terrible  Ipss  for  us  all!"  I  said. 
"Claude  was  the  King-  of  the  Mountains." 

Benoit  and  Etienne  had  taken  no  part  in  the 
discussion,  but  when  it  was  over  the  boy  turned 
to  his  uncle  and  said : 

"Uncle  Benoit,  you've  never  seen  the  place 
where  father  was  killed.  I'll  take  you  there  when- 
ever you  like." 

"What's  the  use?"  answered  Benpit.  "It  was 
only  an  accident." 

A  plausible  answer:  he  had  accepted  Jean- 
Pierre's  version,  but  I  somehow  insisted  on  con- 
sidering it  as  a  partial  confession.  I  had  the  key, 
and  could  easily  read  between  the  lines.  Etienne 
had  the  little  dog  with  him  when  he  offered  to  go 
down  with  his  uncle.  He  was  determined  to  work 
out  the  plan  he  had  made  last  yerar.  Coal  was  the 
only  witness,  and  Coal  would  remember  every 
filing  once  he  was  on  the  scene,  and  of  course  rec- 
ognize the  murderer.  With  the  help  of  the  dog, 
Etienne  would  be  certain.  He  never  varied  in  his 
methods. 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened ;  I  wondered  if 
Etienne  had  noticed.  Never  had  I  seen  Benoit 
caress  the  dog;  he  now  tried  it,  and  Coal  showed 
his  teeth.  But  perhaps  the  same  hostility  had 
existed  before  Claude's  death?  I  couldn't  say. 
Benoit,  at  least,  had  never  shown  any  great  affec- 
tion for  him. 

It  was  I  who  had  brought  Benoit  and  Etienne 


PURSUIT  149 

together  on  this  occasion,  and  I  alone  was  able  to 
interpret  the  meaning  of  the  boy's  offer.  At  least 
I  thought  I  was  the  only  one,  for  my  beaters  were 
concerned,  if  at  all,  only  with  Etienne 's  former 
suspicion  of  them.  But  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Benoit's  face  as  he  looked  at  Coal.  He  was  im- 
mediately on  his  guard.  He  understood;  of  this 
I  had  conclusive  proof,  for  some  days  later  Coal 
was  found  dead  among  the  rocks.  The  murderer 
had  got  rid  of  a  dangerous  witness. 

Dogs,  however,  are  often  killed  up  among  these 
precipitous  rocks ;  it  is  so  dangerous  that  we  long 
ago  gave  up  hunting  with  them. 

Why  does  every  event  present  two  aspects,  one 
natural,  and  the  other  suspicious? 

Etienne  was  furious  over  the  loss  of  his  dog. 
He  had  no  hesitation  in  accusing  Benoft — not 
directly,  of  course,  but  I  could  read  resentment 
in  his  face.  War  was  declared  between  the  two, 
a  war  of  ambuscades,  and  I  feared  for  the  younger 
of  the  combatants. 

Benoit  retired  once  more  within  his  wall  of  im- 
penetrability and  ill-humour.  His  power,  his  self- 
possession  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  for- 
midable game  he  was  playing,  made  him  an  alto- 
gether dangerous  man.  His  abrupt  silences  and 
assumed  airs  of  affability  were  terrible.  I  was 
worried  on  account  of  Etienne,  whose  "  shoul- 
ders," according  to  Jean-Pierre,  were  not  intended 
for  " these  notions!"  The  Prince  of  Denmark, 


150  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

too,  had  not  sufficiently  broad  shoulders  to  per- 
form the  duty  imposed  upon  him  by  the  ghost  of 
Elsinore.  Knowledge  of  guilt  alone  is  not  enough 
for  the  execution  of  justice. 

Little  by  little  Claude's  son  lost  ground.  He 
asked  stupid  questions,  resulting  only  to  his  dis- 
advantage, and  one  day  Benoit  was  able  to  take 
the  offensive.  Portaz'  chamois  was  at  last  sighted 
through  the  field-glasses,  and  Benoit  turned  to 
his  nephew: 

"Do  you  want  to  go  after  him.?  Your  father 
could  climb  the  rock,  and  you  are  as  good  a 
climber  as  he  was.  Portaz  has  found  the  trail. 
You  take  the  little  path  to  the  right,  and  then 
cross  over  to  the  left." 

Benoit  gave  this  information  without  looking  at 
Etienne,  whose  pride  was  naturally  touched.  But 
I  remembered  what  had  happened  to  the  dog — his 
"accidental"  death.  A  similar  "accident"  was 
being  proposed  to  Etienne.  Etienne  was  at  first 
tempted  to  go,  but  he  too  must  have  thought  of 
Coal,  for  he  turned  to  Benoit  and  said: 

"I'll  go  if  you'll  go,  Uncle." 

This  took  Benoit  by  surprise.  He  thjought  for 
a  moment  and  then  decided  to  take  the  chance : 

"All  right,  youngster,  we'll  both  go." 

He  said  "youngster"  when  he  wished  particu- 
larly to  exasperate  Etienne.  The  two  eyed  each 
other  like  duellists  about  to  engage  in  mortal  com- 
bat, each  calculating  the  other's  power  of  resis- 


PURSUIT  151 

tance.  It  was  evidently  their  intention  to  fight  it 
out  up  there  on  the  rock — a  duel  to  the  death. 
"Would  it,  I  wondered,  be  a  fair  and  equal  fight? 
On  their  way  up  the  steep  rock  might  not  one  try 
to  throw  the  other  into  the  abyss.  Who  would 
know  of  it?  It  is  so  easy  to  misinterpret  things 
at  a  distance.  The  refusal  to  lend  a  hand  at  a 
critical  moment  would  never  be  noticed. 

I  calculated  the  danger,  and  interposed  my 
authority : 

"I  won't  allow  either  of  you  to  go.'* 

"Very  well,  if  you  say  so,"  said  Benoit. 

Etienne  was  not  so  ready  to  give  in:  he  had 
seen  in  this  duel  the  opportunity  he  had  longed 
for. 

In  order  to  prevent  accidents  I  saw  to  it  that 
Etienne  was  close  by  my  side  during  the  hunt, 
showing  him  marked  preference  by  allowing  him 
to  carry  my  lunch  bag  and  fetch  the  game  for 
me.  But  the  analytical  Etienne  realised  that  I 
was  keeping  a  strict  watch  over  him.  I  am  not 
sure  whether  or  not  he  guessed  my  reasons,  but 
he  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  perform  his  duties 
to  perfection.  Suddenly — doubtless  he  had 
thought  it  all  out — he  was  grateful  to  me,  though 
he  showed  his  gratitude  rather  by  deed  than  by 
word.  But  his  new  manner  troubled  me :  he  had 
told  no  one  of  his  secret.  Later,  I  discovered  that 
he  had  suffered  in  silence.  My  existence,  living 
as  I  did  between  these  two  men,  was  like  a  con- 


152  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

tinual  dream,  in  which  I  could  only  speculate  re- 
garding which  of  the  two  would  be  the  first  to  kill 
the  other.  How  was  I  to  disarm  them?  If  the 
pursuer  were  to  cease  the  pursuit,  the  criminal 
would  naurally  be  no  longer  on  the  defensive. 

I  called  to  mind  Jean-Pierre's  advice:  "Let 
Etienne  enjoy  himself  like  other  young  men."  I 
must  therefore  offer  him  distractions  if  I  hoped 
to  avoid  a  catastrophe. 

It  was  he  himself  who  gave  me  the  occasion. 
One  day  when  we  were  hunting  he  wanted  to 
know  whether  it  would  be  possible  to  attain  his 
legal  majority  before  the  normal  time. 

"It  is  possible,"  I  explained,  "in  a  way,  at 
least— by  'emancipation.'  But  the  status  of 
'emancipation'  is  by  no  means  legal  majority. 
Are  you  thinking  of  getting  married?" 

"I?  No!"  he  replied,  almost  indignantly. 
"Why?" 

"If  you  were  married  you  would  be  legally 
'emancipated.'  Marry  that  little  girl  who  comes 
here  with  your  mother.  Haven't  you  noticed  her? 
She's  always  making  eyes  at  you.  She's  really 
very  fond  of  you.  Melanie  is  as  pretty  a  girl  as 
I  ever  saw — what  fresh  cheeks  and  bright  eyes! 
How  good-natured  she  is,  with  a  kind  word  for 

everyone,  and  a  love  of  flowers !  If  I  were 

you  I  shouldn't  hesitate.  Her  father,  Serafin,  is 
the  best  man  in  Bessans,  and  that's  saying  a 


PURSUIT  153 

great  deal.  You  must  think  of  the  family  you're 
marrying  into,  you  know." 

He  listened  attentively  to  my  harangue,  and  I 
thought  when  I  had  ended  that  the  secretive  boy 
had  all  along  been  deceiving  us  regarding  his 
affection  for  Melanie.  But  his  answer  proved 
me  wrong: 

"I  don't  want  to  marry." 

Had  I  been  indiscreet  in  hinting  that  family 
reputation  was  a  matter  of  importance  in  this  con- 
nection ?  I  tried  the  attack  again  from  a  different 
angle. 

"If  not  Melanie,  then  someone  else.  There  are 
plenty  of  pretty  girls  in  Bessans." 

"Oh,  girls!"  It  was  an  echo — I  had  heard 
something  very  much  like  that,  long  ago. 

In  these  two  words  there  was  a  haunting  melan- 
choly: regret  for  the  unattainable,  longing  for 
tenderness  and  love  that  could  never  be  his.  I 
could  not  otherwise  interpret  that  sigh  of  the 
ex-seminarist,  a  lad  who  had  preserved  intact 
his  youthful  modesty,  and  possibly  his  youthful 
innocence. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  marry,"  he  repeated  with 
unmistakable  emphasis. 

I  thought  of  poor  drooping  Melanie,  while 
Etienne  returned  to  his  legal  inquiries: 

"Isn't  there  another  way,  Monsieur  1'Avocat?" 

"No,  you  cannot  attain  your  majority  before 


154  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

you  reach,  the  right  age.  'Emancipation*  is  sim- 
ple enough.  A  widow  can  emancipate  her  chil- 
dren when  they  have  reached  fifteen.  All  you 
need  is  her  declaration  before  a  justice  of  the 
peace. ' ' 

"Do  I  make  the  application!" 

"No,  it  must  be  your  mother." 

"Then  ask  my  mother  to  apply." 

"I  have  no  objection,  but  tell  me,  why  do  you 
want  this?" 

"I  don't  know.  Or — I  can  at  least  give  away 
my  property?" 

"Oh,  no  you  can't." 

So  that  was  his  reason :  he  wanted  to  make  his 
will.  He  would  seem  then  to  have  abandoned  the 
pursuit,  allowing  Benoit  to  resume  his  daily  life, 
either  because  he  could  think  of  no  new  method 
of  attack  or  because  he  had  lost  his  absolute  con- 
viction of  his  uncle's  guilt. 

One  morning,  when  Benoit  had  gone  off  with 
the  beaters,  Etienne  asked  leave  to  remain  be- 
hind in  the  chalet.  I  was  afraid  he  wanted  to  be- 
gin again,  and  I  began  by  refusing.  He  ex- 
plained that  as  this  was  the  day  when  supplies 
were  expected  he  would  like  to  wait  and  see  his 
mother. 

"Your  mother — and  also  Melanie?" 

He  was  a  little  more  gracious  than  usual,  and 
answered : 

*' Perhaps  Melanie,  too." 


PURSUIT  155 

"Very  well  then,  you  may  stay." 

After  I  had  stationed  myself  in  my  post  on  the 
slope  of  Albaron,  I  pondered  over  our  little  con- 
versation. It  was  pleasant  to  think  that  the  girl's 
charms  were  at  last  beginning  to  take  effect  on  the 
hard-hearted  Etienne.  She  would  be  the  oasis  in 
his  life,  the  shade,  the  peace,  the  rest.  She  would 
also  bring  happiness,  and  end  by  inducing  him 
to  forget  his  vengeance  and  his  "sacred  duties." 
And  then  I  was  seized  by  a  terrible  doubt.  What 
if  Etienne,  unable  to  attack  Benoit,  were  to  turn 
against  his  mother?  Was  it  not  his  intention  at 
this  instant  to  induce  the  imprudent  Maddalena 
to  talk  while  Benoit  was  out  of  the  way?  Per- 
haps he  had  decided  to  forget  filial  respect  and 
arrive  at  the  truth  in  that  way? 

Absorbed  as  he  was  by  his  warfare  with  Ben- 
oit he  had  taken  no  account  of  the  abyss  into 
which  his  mother  would  be  thrown  were  he  to  se- 
cure absolute  proofs  of  the  crime.  Was  it  not 
she  who  had  spent  the  night  of  the  murder  in  the 
chalet  ?  Would  Etienne  denounce  her  after  wring- 
ing a  confession  from  her?  I  hardly  dared  ima- 
gine the  interview  between  mother  and  son.  I 
ought  to  have  remained  with  them.  I  owed  it 
to  Jean-Pierre. 

When  I  heard  the  horn  announcing  that  the 
chamois  was  finally  at  bay,  instead  of  joining  my 
companions  and  lunching  with  them  as  usual,  I 
made  my  way  back  to  the  chalet,  unseen  by  any- 


156  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

one.  The  few  provisions  I  had  brought  with  me 
were  quite  sufficient.  I  calculated  that  Maddalena 
would  not  have  arrived  before  my  return,  but  as 
a  matter  of  fact  I  saw  the  mule,  just  relieved  of 
his  burden,  quietly  munching  his  grain  in  front 
of  the  door.  In  a  field  nearby,  I  caught  sight  of 
two  girls  picking  flowers:  Melanie  and  Blna,  no 
doubt.  Eina  sometimes  came  up  with  her  mother. 

Etienne  had  been  some  time  alone  with  his 
mother.  How  long  had  they  been  together? 

I  went  into  my  room  to  put  down  my  rifle  and 
leave  my  cartridges.  This  room  is  upstairs  on 
the  second  floor,  and  has  a  long  window  opening 
on  a  balcony  with  a  view  of  the  Valley  of  the 
Averole,  opposite  that  of  the  Albaron  which  you 
can  see  from  the  front  door.  Below  the  balcony 
outside  is  a  bench.  As  I  stepped  out,  I  could  hear 
voices,  and  I  knew  that  Maddalena  and  her  son 
were  there.  They  could  not  have  suspected  my 
return,  for  there  was  no  interruption  in  their  con- 
versation. I  had  no  business  to  listen,  but  I  knew 
their  affairs  so  intimately  that  I  unhesitatingly 
took  this  opportunity  of  clearing  up  my  doubts, 
if  only  for  the  purpose  of  preventing  further 
crimes  and  the  ultimate  ruin  of  the  Convert  fam- 
ily. I  would  reveal  my  presence  if  I  felt  it  neces- 
sary. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  that  it  was  the  woman 
who  conducted  the  conversation.  Etienne  scarcely 
answered,  possibly  because  he  felt  that  such  a 


PURSUIT  157 

cross-examination  was  more  decorously  executed 
in  that  way;  or  perhaps  he  had  stopped  short, 
terrified  at  the  idea  of  making  a  direct  attack 
himself.  That  at  least  is  how  I  interpreted  the 
slow  and  hesitating  manner  of  his  replies.  Mad- 
dalena  spoke  to  him  much  as  the  Queen  speaks  to 
Hamlet.  She  urged  him  to  cease  his  attempts, 
telling  him,  "It  happens  to  us  all;  everything  that 
lives  must  die,  to  live  again  in  Eternity."  This 
at  least  was  the  burden  of  her  words.  She  en- 
couraged him  to  enjoy  himself  like  other  young 
men,  speaking  like  a  procuress  describing  her 
wares,  and  then  went  on  to  praise  Melanie,  who 
was  healthy  and  virtuous,  hard-working  and  well- 
shaped.  There  was  in  her  description  of  the  girl 
a  sensuality  that  opened  my  eyes  to  a  great  deal 
in  her  own  character.  At  an  earlier  time  her  re- 
ligious pilgrimages  offered  her  a  certain  distrac- 
tion; now  she  was  completely  dominated  by  her 
passion.  She  could  not  conceal  that:  even  her 
words  betrayed  it.  It  was  as  if  she  were  undress- 
ing in  my  presence.  Would  she  be  able  to  main- 
tain any  sort  of  defence  under  the  rapid  fire  of  a 
really  clever  cross-examination  undertaken  for 
the  purpose  of  incriminating  her?  Etienne  had 
her  at  his  mercy,  though  he  did  not  realize  it ;  but 
I  did. 

The  more  he  tried  to  take  refuge  in  soft  evasive 
answers,  the  harder  did  she  press  him: 

"Melanie  comes  up  here  to  see  you.    You're  a 


158  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

handsome  boy,  Etienne.  Set  the  day;  say  when 
it's  to  be." 

Etienne  impatiently  repulsed  her,  though  he 
managed  to  be  polite: 

"There's  no  hurry,  Mama."  He  used  the  fa- 
miliar peasant  form. 

Was  he  moved  by  her  maternal  solicitude  or 
simply  hesitating  to  perform  his  terrible  duty? 
I  am  convinced  that  nothing  would  have  happened 
had  not  Maddalena  ended  her  harangue  by  sug- 
gesting something  she  had  set  her  heart  on,  re- 
awakening all  the  latent  hatred  and  desire  for  re- 
venge in  the  breast  of  Etienne.  Was  not  this  one 
of  these  "unforeseen  circumstances"  which,  ac- 
cording to  Joseph  de  Maistre,  inevitably  betray 
the  cleverest  criminals? 

"And  there  is  something  else,  Etienne,  I  wanted 
to  say,  now  that  you're  in  a  quiet  humor.  Your 
Uncle  Benoit  is  anxious  about  you  and  wants  you 
to  be  happy.  Why  are  you  so  unkind  to  him?" 

"Who  told  you  I  was?" 

"He  did.  He  wasn't  complaining,  he  just  told 
me.  After  all,  you  know,  he  takes  your  father's 
place  in  the  family. ' ' 

"Takes  your  father's  place"  was  peculiarly 
unfortunate.  Even  I,  as  I  stood  on  my  balcony, 
was  shocked — it  seemed  almost  an  insult  to  me; 
what  must  have  been  the  effect  on  Etienne?  It 
was  now  his  turn  to  cross-question  his  mother; 


PURSUIT  169 

her  words  had  swept  away  the  last  vestige  of  re- 
spect he  felt  he  owed  her: 

"Were  yon  on  the  path  to  Averole  when  you 
saw  him  for  the  last  time?" 

"Without  even  asking  what  he  referred  to,  she 
answered  quietly: 

"I  had  just  come  up  to  the  chalet  with  the  mule 
when  I  saw  him  coming  down  with  his  chamois. '  * 

"Did  he  say  anything  to  you?" 

"Of  course:  'Good  day.'     Why  not?" 

' '  Did  he  say  anything  about  me,  or  Jean-Marie, 
or  Rina?" 

"I  don't  remember.  He  was  going  to  Bonneval 
to  sell  the  chamois.  He  seemed  very  happy.  He 
was  thinking  of  nothing  but  that." 

"I  see.  Thinking  of  nothing  but  that.  Uncle 
Benoit  was  with  you,  wasn't  he?" 

"Yes,  he  was  with  us.  He  was  over  by  the 
door,  waiting  for  the  mule." 

"He  talked  with  you,  too?" 

"I  don't  remember.    That  was  two  years  ago." 

* '  Two  years  is  nothing. ' ' 

"It's  long  enough  to  get  things  mixed  in  your 
mind.  What  do  you  want  to  know  all  these  things 
for?" 

"Because  I'm  thinking  about  my  father." 

"You  think  too  much  about  him.  Shall  I  call 
Melanie?" 

' '  Not  yet,  Mama,  not  yet. ' ' 


160  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

Had  she  said  too  much!  She  attempted  to 
retreat : 

"Maybe  your  Uncle  Benoit  was  not  there." 
"He  was  standing  by  the  door,  waiting  to  un- 
load the  mule." 

"I'm  not  sure.    You  could  ask  him." 
A  pause,  after  which  Etienne  murmured,  hardly 
above  a  whisper : 

"You'd  better  call  Melanie." 
"You're  a  sensible  boy.    Thank  you." 
She  got  up  and  walked  away,  and  shortly  after 
I  heard  her  musical  voice  calling  to  the  girl. 

I,  who  knew  so  much,  realized  what  was  passing 
in  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  boy.  He  had  dis- 
covered what  he  wanted  to  know.  Once  more, 
Dalilah  had  betrayed  Samson.  Etienne  and  I  had 
been  together  on  the  occasion  when  I  had  reminded 
Benoit  of  Claude's  last  descent:  "You  must  have 
seen  him  as  he  walked  past  your  chalet  on  his  way 
to  Bonneval?"  and  Benoit,  laying  down  his  cham- 
ois, had  denied  seeing  him,  turning  toward  the 
animal  to  avoid  my  eye.  Why  had  he  denied 
meeting  his  brother?  Simply  in  order  to  prove 
that  he  knew  nothing  of  Claude's  nocturnal  trip. 
And  the  crime  must  obviously  have  been  premedi- 
tated: the  place  chosen  for  its  execution  and  the 
attack  from  the  rear,  proved  that.  This  denial 
had  surprised  Etienne,  and  at  the  same  time 
brought  his  examination  to  an  abrupt  conclusion. 
That  is  why  he  had  turned  to  his  mother.  He  had 


PURSUIT  161 

long  hesitated  to  ask  that  question,  allowing  her 
rather  to  chatter  on  and  try  to  persuade  him  to 
let  the  matter  rest.  But  she  had  herself  provoked 
the  asking  of  the  fatal  question  by  making  that 
odious  comparison. 

It  was  from  a  feeling  of  sympathy,  and  not  idle 
curiosity,  that  I  leaned  over  the  balcony. 
Etienne's  face  was  hidden  in  his  hands;  he  was 
crying.  The  people  of  this  district  rarely  weep, 
though  in  the  presence  of  death  it  is  customary 
to  utter  cries.  Etienne  had  silently  given  in  to 
his  sorrow.  His  training  at  the  seminary  had  no 
doubt  predisposed  him  to  feel  the  subtle  refine- 
ments of  mental  suffering.  What  was  he  crying 
about?  It  was  because  the  proofs  he  had  acquired 
had  come  from  his  own  mother,  his  mama.  I  was 
tempted  to  go  down,  take  him  in  my  arms  and 
console  him,  this  boy  whose  burden  was  too  heavy 
for  the  shoulders  of  youth.  But  I  couldn't.  That 
would  have  meant  that  I  knew  everything — 
Benoit's  crime  and  Maddalena's. 

Stealthy  steps  were  heard  coming  around  the 
house,  at  which  both  of  us,  he  below  and  I  at 
my  window,  were  startled.  I  had  just  time  to  see 
Etienne  jump  to  his  feet  before  I  returned  to 
my  room.  It  was  only  Melanie.  Happy,  gracious, 
charming,  and  blushing  to  the  roots  of  her  hair 
(thus  I  pictured  her),  she  was  coming  to  her 
melancholy  betrothal.  She  found  Etienne  in 
tears. 


162  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"Are  you  angry,  Etienne,  or  don't  you  feel 
well?" 

"Oh,  I  am  all  right."  A  pause,  and  then:  "So 
it's  true,  Melam'e?" 

"What,  Etienne?" 

"That  if  I  ask  you  to  marry  me  you'll  have 
me?" 

"I'm  willing." 

Another  pause.    This  is  their  betrothal. 

"That's  a  pretty  bouquet  you  have,  Melanie." 

"Do  you  want  it?" 

"It's  too  big.    Just  give  me  some  of  them." 

"Those?" 

"Yes,  those  purple  ones.    They  have  no  smell." 

And  again  they  said  nothing.  A  silence  pro- 
longed by  the  increasing  embarrassment  of  the 
two.  It  was  Etienne  who  finally  broke  it: 

"You  tell  Mama,  will  you  Melanie?  She'll  be 
glad." 

Then,  just  above  a  whisper,  I  heard  her  sigh : 

"So  soon!" 

That  was  all. 

The  love  scene  was  over.  They  did  not  even 
kiss.  I  wondered  whether  Etienne  had  not  ac- 
cepted his  mother's  plan  in  order  to  escape  from 
himself,  using  his  engagement  as  an  excuse  to 
abandon  his  mission?  In  that  case  he  too  would 
be  dragging  his  victim  down  with  him,  destroying 
a  life  that  had  been  confided  to  his  care.  His 
hands,  then,  were  no  cleaner  than  those  of  his 


PURSUIT  163 

Uncle  Benoit.  Etienne's  were  more  delicate,  per- 
haps, but  strong  enough  indeed  to  strangle  a  bird. 

I  was  now  free  to  show  myself,  and  when  I 
stepped  out  on  to  the  balcony  I  saw  the  couple 
walking  away.  They  walked  side  by  side,  but  not 
holding  hands.  He  was  tall  and  thin  though  there 
was  a  certain  robust  power  in  his  flexible  and 
agile  body.  But  how  faintly  did  she  resemble  the 
portrait  drawn  by  Maddalena !  Her  feet  scarcely 
touched  the  ground.  I  could  just  catch  sight  of 
her  delicate  profile,  proclaiming  the  purity  and 
nobility  of  her  soul.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
Italian  in  her,  she  was  the  product  of  a  race  at 
once  laborious  and  spiritual,  hard-headed  and 
mystical.  To  what  sufferings  was  she  doomed, 
poor  child! 

That  evening  before  leaving  for  Bessans  with 
Maddalena  and  her  mule,  Melanie  ran  in  to  kiss 
her  father,  who  was  standing  at  the  door  of  his 
kitchen.  As  she  kissed  those  unshaven  cheeks 
she  glanced  at  Etienne.  The  good  Serafin  re- 
ceived the  kiss  without  knowing  that  it  had  been 
intended  for  his  daughter's  betrothed. 

Serafin  had  not  been  told  the  news,  nor  had 
anyone  else.  I  could  not  understand  the  reason 
for  this  secrecy.  Perhaps  Etienne  had  insisted 
on  it. 

After  dinner,  when  I  had  gone  as  usual  into  the 
beater's  room  to  smoke  a  pipe  and  talk  over  the 
hunt,  I  tried  to  catch  the  eyes,  of  Etienne,  which 


164  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

were  riveted  upon  Benoit.  Did  he  consider  the 
proofs  he  had  just  acquired  insufficient!  She 
who  had  given  them  would  deny  them  at  the 
slightest  nod  from  her  accomplice.  Yet  he  had 
no  doubts,  I  was  sure  of  that.  How  would  he 
attempt  to  strike  the  murderer!  Directly,  or 
fhrough  a  legal  accusation!  If  through  legal 
channels,  I  would  of  course  give  testimony  on  that 
detail  of  Benoit 's  wet  clothes.  But  after  all,  had 
he  not  given  up  his  plans,  and  was  not  this  day 
of  his  betrothal  a  prelude  to  his  final  abdication! 
Was  he  merely  taking  a  last  look  at  his  prey! 

A  few  days  afterward  I  returned  to  Chambery. 
My  vacation  was  over.  Although  I  had  done  my 
utmost  to  discourage  Etienne  from  further  pur- 
suit, he  had  told  me  nothing  of  his  plans  for  the 
future.  Just  before  I  left,  as  he  was  helping 
me  to  strap  my  bags  and  pack  my  rifles,  I  made  a 
last  attempt  to  get  something  out  of  him : 

"Are  you  still  anxious  to  attain  your  majority 
before  you  reach  the  legal  age!" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 

"How  about  marriage  as  a  means  to  bringing 
it  about!" 

"Perhaps,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 

"With  Melanie  Ruffin!" 

"With  Melanie." 

"Splendid!  My  congratulations.  She's  a  fine, 
capable  girl,  and  very  pretty  to  boot.  May  I  come 
to  the  wedding  feast!" 


PURSUIT  165 

"The  wedding  feast?    Such  things  are  not  for 
you,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 

"I'll  come  all  the  same,  if  you'll  invite  me." 
"All  right,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 
"Well,  you  may  count  on  me,  young  man." 
Did  I  make  that  last  sentence  sound  too  solemn! 
He  turned  the  whites  of  his  eyes  toward  me,  as 
if  trying  to  penetrate  some  hidden  meaning. 
Were  we  not  sharers  of  the  same  secret,  from 
that  day  when  we  had  seen  Benoit  strangle  the 
chamois?  When  my  bags  were  packed,  and  the 
mules  had  started  on  the  road,  I  stopped  to  shake 
hands  with  each  of  my  beaters,  telling  them  that 
I  hoped  to  see  them  all  next  year.  Etienne  stood 
by,  waiting  to  see  how  I  would  behave  to  Benoit, 
who  stood  last  in  line.  I  could  feel  that  he  was 
looking  at  me.  What  could  I  do  other  than  shake 
his  hand  as  I  had  that  of  the  others,  and  turn 
away,  not  looking  behind  me?  I  burned  with 
shame  fearing  I  knew  not  what,  after  shaking 
hands  with  the  murderer.  It  was  a  matter  of 
keen  regret  that  I  had  not  been  able  to  carry  with 
me  a  last  visual  impression  of  my  cabin,  my  frail 
little  wooden  chalet  hidden  away  among  the  gi- 
gantic rock  walls  of  the  Albaron  and  the  Char- 
bonel. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL 

THE  charming  custom  of  betrothal  ceremonies 
is  still  observed  in  Savoy.  The  young  people  go 
to  church  accompanied  by  their  families,  and  in 
the  presence  of  the  priest  make  their  formal  ex- 
change of  vows.  From  the  moment  of  the  priest's 
blessing,  the  engaged  couple  are  considered  as 
practically  married,  and  cannot  break  the  engage- 
ment without  perjury.  They  may  not,  however, 
spend  a  night  together  under  the  same  roof  until 
after  the  marriage  is  consecrated. 

A  month  after  my  departure  in  October,  I  re- 
ceived a  well- written  letter  from  Etienne  inviting 
me  to  the  betrothal,  which  was  set  for  All  Saints' 
Day.  The  marriage  was  not  to  take  place  before 
winter.  It  was  wiser  therefore  to  undertake  the 
trip  on  November  first,  since  later  on  the  roads 
would  be  impassable.  Etienne  was  counting  on 
my  presence. 

I  set  out  from  Chambery  in  one  of  those  soft 
autumnal  mists  that  vanish  toward  midday,  leav- 
ing a  bright  clear  Italian  sky  overhead.  As  my 
carriage  reached  the  wild  summit  of  the  little 
ridge  of  La  Madeleine,  between  Lanslevillard  and 

166 


HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL  167 

Bessans,  my  eyes  feasted  on  the  familiar  land- 
scape— the  broad  Valley  of  the  Arc,  the  church 
steeple  glistening  in  the  sun,  and  my  beloved 
mountains  covered  half-way  down  with  a  powder 
of  snow.  The  late  season  added  novelty  to  the 
scene.  Up  to  the  snow-belt  everything  was  gold, 
pale  gold  and  dull  of  the  birches,  mellow  gold  of 
the  oaks,  red  gold  of  the  beeches,  fiery  gold  of 
the  willows  stretching  along  the  banks  of  the 
stream,  yellow  gold  of  the  thickets,  scarlet  gold 
of  the  tufted  bilberries,  and  finally  pure  virgin 
gold  of  the  larch  forests  contrasting  with  the  som- 
bre green  of  the  pines.  The  incomparable  rich- 
ness of  this  tapestry,  with  the  colors  passing  in 
gradation  from  green  to  purple,  stood  out  in  sharp 
relief  against  the  lowest  reaches  of  the  snow  that 
sprang  into  life  under  the  quickening  rays  of  the 
sun.  Autumn  and  winter  struggled  for  possession 
of  the  mountains,  each  outvying  the  other  in  the 
magnificence  of  its  apparel. 

The  church  at  Bessans,  as  you  know,  stands  on 
a  knoll  above  the  town,  dominating  the  little  ag- 
glomeration of  houses.  The  path  leading  up  to  it 
passes  by  a  crucifix  rising  up  gaunt  against  the 
background  of  the  Valley;  the  figure  of  Christ 
reminds  you  of  those  tragic  Spanish  Christs 
crushed  under  a  burden  of  sorrow,  as  if  they  had 
been  bent  and  stiffened  to  the  task  of  bearing  the 
cross.  The  cemetery  clusters  round  the  little 
Chapel  of  St.  Antoine.  From  a  point  of  vantage 


168  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

on  this  knoll  I  watched  the  people  coming  up 
to  celebrate  All  Saints'  Mass,  the  townsfolk  of 
Bessans,  and  a  sprinkling  of  others  from  neigh- 
boring villages.  Women  from  the  valleys  of  Ave- 
role  and  Ribon,  who  lived  some  distance  away, 
came  on  asses  and  mules.  It  was  pleasant  to 
watch  them  leap  down  so  lightly  from  their  sad- 
dles, even  the  aged  matrons.  They  all  dressed  in 
the  sombre  costume  of  Bessans.  Some  had  added 
shawls,  or  aprons  embroidered  in  brown  or  blue. 
Every  face  was  shaded  by  the  black  tulle  bonnet, 
and  the  younger  women  wore  red  or  orange  rib- 
bons. A  few  had  put  on  family  jewels — a  golden 
heart  or  a  cross  suspended  from  a  velvet  ribbon, 
or  other  heavy  gold  ornaments.  The  men  wore 
hats  adorned  with  steel  buckles,  red  or  green 
belts,  short  jackets  with  metal  buttons,  colored 
waistcoats  with  yellow  buttons  and  red  lace  trim- 
mings. Not  all  the  men,  however,  for  many  of 
then — especially  those  who  had  done  military 
service  and  knew  the  ways  of  cities — had  donned 
the  conventional  black  suit.  Had  it  not  been  for 
this  treason  toward  local  custom,  you  might  have 
thought  yourself  in  a  bygone  age,  in  the  days  when 
the  Clapiers  painted  wooden  church  ornaments, 
or  mounted  mystery  plays  in  the  Chapel  of  St. 
Antoine,  before  the  good  people  of  Bessans  as- 
sembled to  see  the  stable  where  Christ  was  born. 

The  cemetery  at  my  feet  had  been  transformed 
into  a  garden  in  honor  of  the  dead.    The  tombs 


HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL  169 

were  smothered  under  heaps  of  chrysanthemums 
that  had  been  brought  that  morning  and  symmetri- 
cally arranged  with  the  utmost  care.  One  poor 
old  woman  dismounted  from  her  mule  and  car- 
ried in  a  magnificent  armful  of  gorgeously  colored 
boughs.  They  were  an  offering  to  her  dead.  The 
tomb  on  which  she  laid  them  shone  resplendent 
above  all  the  others ;  it  glistened  with  the  golden 
splendor  of  a  candelabrum  on  the  high  altar. 

I  turned  and  looked  in  the  opposite  direction: 
the  whole  mountain  resembled  a  gigantic  garden. 

The  betrothal  ceremony  was  celebrated  after 
mass  in  a  side  chapel,  and,  except  for  myself,  only 
the  immediate  members  of  the  two  families  were 
present.  Conforming  to  the  ancient  tradition, 
Etienne  and  Melanie  had  dressed  in  the  appro- 
priate costumes.  They  were  a  charming  couple, 
graceful,  young,  supple.  My  heart  went  out  to 
them,  and  I  felt  considerable  apprehension  about 
their  future.  For  how  long  would  they  tread  the 
path  of  peace  and  happiness?  Had  indeed  all 
hatred  and  vengeance  been  stifled  in  the  boy's 
heart,  and  had  his  love  for  Melanie  effectually 
taken  their  place  ?  I  could  not  help  watching  him 
and  trying  to  guess  his  thoughts.  But  his  features 
were  set,  his  lips  tightly  closed,  and  I  could  read 
nothing  in  his  expression,  I  thought  I  saw  his 
hand  tremble  when  the  priest  asked  him  to  take 
Melanie 's.  The  girl  raised  her  head  ecstatically 
toward  the  man  at  her  side,  and  the  halo  of  her 


170  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

head-dress  completed  her  resemblance  to  the  Vir- 
gin. There  was  something  delicate  and  distin- 
guished in  her  pallor  that  was  accentuated  by  the 
fresh  pinkness  of  her  temples  and  forehead.  How 
different  was  she  from  the  girl  Maddalena  had 
described !  How  little  had  the  woman  understood 
the  girl !  It  is  piety  or  a  boundless  mystical  love 
that  gives  a  young  girl  the  air  of  an  angel — a 
Bernadette  of  Lourdes  or  a  Melanie  de  la  Salette, 
humble  shepherdesses  who  see  visions. 

Serafin  Ruffin's  family  included  many  brothers 
and  sisters,  all  of  whom  were  present.  The 
mother,  however,  was  dead.  The  occasion  was 
too  much  for  my  poor  beater  who,  except  when  he 
was  hunting,  was  a  soft-hearted,  easy-going  fel- 
low; he  could  not  restrain  the  tears,  which  he 
brushed  away  with  his  huge  thumb  as  he  would  an 
importunate  insect.  Bina  clung  to  Melanie,  as  if 
she  felt  it  her  duty  to  help  the  future  wife  of 
Etienne,  her  guide  and  her  idol  My  eyes  next 
fixed  on  Jean-Marie,  a  healthy  grown-up  lad  of 
fifteen.  Why  was  I  so  attentive  to  him?  I  was 
looking  for  the  resemblance!  To  Claude,  or  to 
Benoit?  That  mouth  surely,  and  those  ears  lying 
flat  against  the  head,  were  indubitably  Benoit's, 
but  were  not  his  jovial  aspect,  round  face  and 
dumpy  features,  the  very  antithesis  of  the  sharp 
bony  face  of  Benoit?  On  the  other  hand,  ro- 
tundity of  features  often  comes  from  good  soup, 
and  joviality  from  a  happy  childhood.  Before  his 


HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL  171 

death  Claude  was  able  to  give  his  own  imprint,  as 
it  were,  to  the  impressionable  youngster.  This 
at  least  was  what  I  saw  in  Jean-Marie 's  pleasant 
face.  He  interested  me ;  he  was  a  new  element — 
the  last — in  this  family  drama,  for  Etienne  had 
abdicated. 

But  had  he  ?  Surely  his  uncle  and  mother  were 
convinced  of  it.  They  both  looked  infinitely  re- 
lieved. Or  did  I  only  imagine  it?  Maddalena  had 
put  on  a  bright  ribbon — was  it  not  fitting  after 
two  years  of  widowhood — one  of  those  fire-tinted 
ribbons  she  used  to  be  so  fond  of,  casting  its  color 
over  her  head-dress,  and  falling  down  over  her 
neck,  tinting  the  upper  part  of  her  waist.  She 
was  once  more  beginning  to  experience  the  joy 
of  life. 

After  the  priest's  benediction  we  left  the  church 
in  a  body.  There  remained  only  the  dinner  at 
Etienne 's  home,  at  which  I  was  the  sole  outside 
guest.  As  Melanie  stepped  out  of  the  church  she 
took  Etienne  by  the  arm,  and  pointing  to  the 
cemetery : 

" Would  you  like  to  go!"  she  asked. 

She  had  lavished  all  her  care  and  love  of  flowers 
on  the  decoration  of  Claude's  grave.  Now  she 
wished  to  show  Etienne  what  she  had  done,  to 
associate  their  present  happiness  with  the  other 
sacred  memory.  How  was  she  to  know  that  it 
was  wrong  to  take  Hamlet  to  the  cemetery?  Was 
it  not  there  that  he  would  hear  strange  counsels 


172  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

and  utter  fatally  reasonable  words?  She  had 
given  in  to  a  natural  impulse  of  sympathy  and 
generosity,  for  her  loving  intuition  had  told  her 
of  the  sorrow  in  the  heart  of  Claude's  son.  But 
that  same  intuition  was  to  destroy  the  happiness 
that  had  just  been  so  solemnly  promised  her.  I 
was  startled  by  his  reply : 

"Why  the  cemetery?" 

She  too  was  surprised,  and  did  not  insist.  Sud- 
denly he  changed  his  mind  and  taking  Melanie  by 
the  arm  he  led  her  quickly  to  the  grave.  I  re- 
mained where  I  was,  for  of  course  I  had  no  right 
to  follow  them.  When,  together  with  the  families, 
I  started  down  the  hill,  I  could  see  them  in  the 
cemetery,  standing  out  against  the  heaps  of  flow- 
ers— she  must  have  been  kneeling,  for  he  towered 
high  above  her.  The  great  crucifix  seemed  to 
cast  a  shadow  of  sorrow  over  the  couple  while 
the  face  of  Christ  was  turned  to  God  in  an  attitude 
of  supplication. 

We  sat  down  to  dinner  before  a  long  table  set 
in  the  courtyard  surrounded  on  two  sides  by  the 
stalls,  where  the  cows,  unaccustomed  to  the  sound 
of  so  many  strange  voices,  were  constantly  ring- 
ing their  little  bells.  Etienne's  expression  had 
entirely  changed :  he  wore  that  look  I  had  so  often 
seen  during  his  terrible  investigations.  I  was 
afraid. 

The  unfortunate  incident  which  I  feared  must 
soon  happen  occurred  at  this  moment.  Benoit 


HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL  173 

was  about  to  take  his  place  opposite  Maddalena 
at  the  center  of  the  table.  It  was  natural  that 
he  should  do  so  and  no  less  natural  that  Madda- 
lena should  sit  opposite  him:  indeed  it  was  their 
duty  on  an  important  occasion  of  this  kind  to 
preside  at  dinner.  As  Benoit  was  about  to  seat 
himself,  Etienne  spoke. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Uncle  Benoit?" 

It  was  Maddalena  who  answered.  She  was  one 
of  those  people  who  seem  destined  to  say  the 
wrong  thing  and  precipitate  scenes. 

"He's  going  to  sit  there,  Etienne,  in  your 
father's  place.'* 

It  was  precisely  this  phrase  that  had  so  agitated 
the  boy  up  at  the  chalet.  Etienne  became  livid 
with  anger.  It  was  he  who  was  head  of  the 
house.  He  stepped  round  to  where  Benoit  was 
standing. 

"I  am  taking  my  father's  place,  and  no  one 
else !  No  one  else,  you  hear,  Mama,  no  one  else ! ' ' 

Melanie  clung  to  her  father,  looking  in  terror  at 
the  man  whom  she  had  never  known  to  be  other 
than  quiet  and  timid.  And  now  he  was  com- 
pletely changed,  hard  and  pitiless.  It  was  to  this 
man  that  she  had  publicly  pledged  her  heart  for- 
ever. Maddalena  was  terrified.  I  wondered  how 
Benoit,  so  unaccommodating,  so  jealous  of  his 
rights,  would  take  this  public  insult.  Would  he 
give  in  to  his  nephew?  And  would  Etienne  hold 
his  tongue  ?  Perhaps  this  was  to  be  the  great  de- 


174  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

nunciation,  the  execution  of  Etienne  's  vengeance  ? 
Judging  by  the  violence  and  hatred  of  Etienne 's 
attitude  I  thought  the  moment  had  come.  This 
time  Etienne,  his  memories  freshly  stirred  by  a 
visit  to  the  cemetery,  his  nerves  shattered  by  the 
renunciation  implied  by  his  betrothal,  could  not 
restrain  himself. 

"Come  now "  Benoit  began,  without  giving 

in  an  inch.  The  two  men  stood  face  to  face,  almost 
touching  each  other. 

"Not  another  word  from  you!"  said  the 
younger. 

Etienne  was  about  to  speak,  and  Benoit  was 
silent.  I  took  pity  on  Melanie,  who  looked  help- 
lessly in  my  direction.  I  could  not  allow  Claude's 
son  to  give  in  to  an  excess  of  rage  on  this  occa- 
sion. What  he  might  do  later  was  another  matter. 
He  would  surely  regret  it.  If  he  wished  to  accom- 
plish what  he  considered  his  filial  duty,  he  must 
not  undertake  it  under  the  influence  of  sudden 
madness.  To  the  relief  of  the  entire  company  I 
quietly  intervened : 

"Come  now,  Etienne,  you  musn't  lose  your  tem- 
per. Here  you  are  boiling  over  like  milk  soup. 
You  must  know  that  if  your  mother  didn't  put  you 
in  the  center,  it  was  because  you  ought  to  be  next 
to  Melanie.  She  didn't  want  you  to  have  to  bother 
with  any  one  else  during  dinner.  Benoit  realizes 
that  it  is  only  the  son  who  takes  the  place  of  the 


HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL  175 

father.  He  will  give  you  his  place  with  the  great- 
est pleasure.  Won't  you,  Benoit  f" 

I  spoke  with  amiable  courtesy,  with  an  air  of 
friendliness  intended  to  put  an  end  to  the  discus- 
sion. As  a  host  enjoying  Maurienne  hospitality, 
as  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  and  as  a  lawyer,  I 
enjoyed  a  certain  prestige.  Above  all,  Benoit  and 
Maddalena  had  suddenly  realized  the  danger  that 
threatened  them.  The  only  proof  I  had  of  this 
was  their  expressions:  they  were  like  animals  at 
bay.  In  that  room  there  were  four  of  us  who 
knew  the  truth.  Benoit  immediately  accepted  my 
suggestion  and  went  to  the  foot  of  the  table,  mur- 
muring, to  save  his  face: 

"Just  as  you  say,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 

Etienne,  perceiving  his  mother's  terror,  said 
nothing. 

This  incident  cast  a  shadow  over  the  first  part 
of  the  dinner ;  but  this  was  gradually  dispelled  by 
a  succession  of  succulent  dishes  and  the  uncork- 
ing of  numberless  bottles  of  wine.  The  Euffins, 
whose  appetites  were  in  no  wise  diminished,  fell 
to  with  infinite  zest,  showing  no  consideration 
whatsoever  for  the  pig  (prematurely  killed  long 
before  Christmas)  which  made  its  entrance  from 
the  kitchen  in  every  imaginable  form — sausages, 
chops,  ham,  and  the  rest.  I  had  brought  many  of 
those  choice  vintages  which  had  pleased  Jean- 
Pierre  at  Chambery;  on  this  occasion  I  need 
scarcely  say,  they  were  slighted  by  no  one.  At 


176  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

dessert  I  proposed  a  toast  in  which  I  briefly  al- 
luded to  poor  Claude,  mainly  for  the  purpose  of 
proving  to  Etienne  that  I  had  not  forgotten  my 
faithful  comrade.  I  likewise  referred  to  the  her- 
mit of  Hautecom.be  who  would,  I  said,  be  gratified 
to  know  that  his  family  was  in  no  danger  of  ex- 
tinction. Finally  I  praised  Melanie  not  in  the 
coarse  manner  of  peasants,  but  with  phrases  ap- 
propriate to  her  charms.  It  was  at  any  rate  my 
intention  to  use  light,  transparent,  and  flowing 
words  in  describing  her.  We  are  often  influenced 
by  the  praise  accorded  to  those  we  love,  and  some- 
times in  that  praise  we  find  new  reasons  for  lov- 
ing. Even  though  love  can  do  without  reasons  it 
is  none  the  less  wise  to  have  a  few  in  reserve.  I 
attempted  in  this  way  to  point  out  to  Etienne 
what  happiness  he  might  enjoy  if  he  would  con- 
sent to  accept  it.  Meantime,  Melanie,  modest  and 
embarrassed,  bent  over  her  plate. 

And  then  there  was  singing.  Serafin  gave  us  a 
drinking  song  and  Maddalena,  quickly  recovering 
from  her  emotions,  sang  an  Italian  folk-song. 

"Now  it's  your  turn,"  I  said  to  Melanie.  "I 
have  heard  you  singing  when  you  gathered  flowers 
in  our  fields.  I  could  hear  you  distinctly  from  the 
chalet. " 

Her  white  cheeks  turned  to  deepest  red.  She 
tried  her  best  to  refuse,  until  her  brothers  and 
sisters  delivered  her  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy 
by  insisting  that  she  had  a  "very  pretty  voice." 


HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL  177 

Without  a  trace  of  false  timidity  she  stood  up 
and  sang  an  old  Bessans  Noel,  a  song  centuries 
old,  bright,  gay  and  sparkling.  The  patois  of  this 
region  cannot  be  transcribed.  Those  who  have 
tried  to  do  so  have  never  succeeded,  for  it  is  a 
living  spoken  language  without  rules  or  syntax. 
Its  soul  is  in  the  trembling  of  an  accent,  like 
leaves  in  a  wind.  Here  is  the  Noel  translated  as 
well  as  uninspired  scholars  can  do  it  :6 

BESSANS  NOEL 

"You  who  are  in  your liouses — as  snug  as  mar- 
mots— don't  put  on  your  boots — just  take  your 
sabots — go  outdoors:  and  there  you'll  find  some- 
thing wonderful; — you'll  see  clearer  than  you  do 
at  noon; — go  out  and  you'll  see  angels — they're 
greeting  everybody. 

"They're  up  there  on  green  Clapey — all  the 
way  across  the  happy  Aiguille, — they're  singing 
a  beautiful  motif — by  heart,  without  reading  it. 
— Kun  and  ask  Father  Pierre — who  knows  some 
Latin — ask  him  to  explain  the  mystery: — Gloria 
in  excelsis  Deo. 

"They  have  sung  this  song — at  least  twenty-five 
times — but  we  still  listen  to  it, — we  don't  under- 
stand what  they  are  saying — Ask  them  a  little 
favor — that  before  they  leave  that  place — they 

'See  CJiansons  des  Alpes,  Savoie  et  Dauphint,  collected  by 
Julien  Tiersot  (Ducloz,  printer,  Motitiers.) 


178  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

sing  in  Bcssanais — not  one  time,  but  two  or 
three." 

"Green  Clapey"  is  the  prairie  whence  came 
the  shepherds  bringing  to  the  Infant  Jesus  their 
gifts  of  milk,  eggs,  cheese,  chickens,  white  par- 
tridges, a  young  lamb,  and  their  hearts  as  well. 
This  field  is  above  Bessans,  and  every  one  knows 
it  was  there  in  a  stable  that  the  Virgin  waa 
brought  to  bed. 

Melanie's  voice  was  a  trifle  thin  but  it  had  an 
agreeable  quality,  and  above  all  a  freshness  to 
which  the  fashionable  singers  I  heard  at  Aix  dur- 
ing the  season  had  entirely  unaccustomed  me. 
Her  youthful  voice  lingered  over  each  finale  with 
a  soft,  sweet  effect.  Her  reward  was  the  look 
that  Etienne  gave  her.  I  had  seen  that  same  look 
on  his  face  during  Mass  at  church,  especially  dur- 
ing the  Elevation  of  the  Host.  It  must  have  been 
that  the  music  touched  a  sympathetic  chord  some- 
where in  his  seminaristic  soul. 

Evening  had  fallen  during  the  little  family  con- 
cert. It  comes  quickly  to  these  narrow  valleys  in 
November.  A  last  ray  of  light  filtered  in  through 
the  windows,  and  fell  on  Melanie,  who  sat  down 
after  the  song. 

I  imagined  that  she  had  been  especially  de- 
signated as  the  harbinger  of  peace  in  this  tragic 
house.  I  could  now  depart  without  fear  of  the 
future.  I  was  confident  that  nothing  serious  would 
now  occur.  Etienne  was  bound  to  submit  to  the 


HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL  179 

yoke  imposed  by  his  lovely  companion ;  he  would 
no  longer  be  haunted  by  the  vision  of  his  mur- 
dered father;  this  time  Ophelia  would  triumph 
over  Hamlet.  This  was  the  best  solution  after 
all,  for  how  could  Etienne  punish  the  murderer 
without  at  the  same  time  striking  the  murderer's 
accomplice,  his  own  mother?  On  the  other  hand, 
here  were  murder  and  incest  going  unpunished, 
and  the  criminals  taking  possession  of  the  house, 
for  there  was  no  doubt  Benoit  would  in  the  end 
take  the  place  he  had  temporarily  relinquished. 

I  left  with  mixed  feelings  of  reassurance  and 
disgust,  intending  to  spend  the  first  night  at 
Lanslevillard,  and  proceed  to  Modane,  where  I 
took  the  train  for  Chambery  next  day. 

About  Christmas,  when  I  had  expected  news  of 
the  marriage,  I  received  a  letter  from  Etienne ;  it 
revealed  the  boy's  embarrassment  and  informed 
me  that  the  wedding  had  been  postponed  until 
spring.  His  reason  for  writing  was  to  ask  me  to 
demand  of  his  mother  in  writing  the  formalities 
necessary  for  his  legal  emancipation.  He  wished 
to  take  this  step  not  so  much  for  his  own  sake  as 
for  that  of  Bina,  who  was  just  eighteen.  The 
idea  was  really  absurd,  as  Etienne 's  legal  status 
would  remain  practically  unchanged.  To  me  it 
indicated  simply  his  mental  restlessness. 

This  letter  gave  the  last  blow  to  all  my  opti- 
mism. Claude's  son  was  once  again  the  prey  of 
doubt  and  worry  and  suspicion.  Separated  from 


180  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

him  as  I  was,  I  probably  magnified  his  torment. 
At  any  rate  I  did  what  he  asked,  and  replied  to 
all  his  questions,  slipping  in  at  the  end  a  few  af- 
fectionate remarks  and  compliments  for  Melanie. 

I  asked  myself  whether  the  wedding  would 
really  take  place  in  the  spring! 

When  spring  came,  I  was  surprised  by  a  visit 
from  Etienne,  who  entered  my  office  followed  by 
a  young  woman  who,  I  felt  sure,  must  be  his  wife. 
The  two  had  evidently  come  to  see  me  on  their 
honeymoon.  But  the  woman  was  Eina,  not  Mela- 
nie. Brother  and  sister  stood  before  me  without 
opening  their  mouths. 

"Well,  Etienne,  not  married  yet?" 

"Oh  no,  Monsieur  1'Avocat.  We've  come  to 
say  good-bye.  You've  been  so  good  to  us." 

"Never  mind  my  goodness.  You're  going 
away?  Both  of  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"To  Paris." 

"Paris !  What  are  you  going  to  do  there?  And 
when  are  you  returning?" 

I  was  then  reminded  of  another  visit — Jean- 
Pierre's:  both  were  made  for  the  same  reason. 
The  young  people  were  leaving  their  home,  at- 
tempting to  escape  from  the  nightmare.  I  now 
understood  far  better  than  before,  the  motives  of 
the  old  man's  departure.  If  Etienne  had  come 
to  me  alone  I  should  perhaps  have  heard  his  con- 


HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL  181 

f ession,  but  the  presence  of  the  innocent  Rina  for- 
bade any  exchange  of  confidences.  She  could  not 
have  known  the  truth,  her  face  was  so  calm  and 
untroubled.  In  this  instance  she  was  blindly  fol- 
lowing her  brother,  submitting  to  his  every  wish. 

It  was  incumbent  upon  me  to  ask  further  ques- 
tions : 

"I  take  it  you  both  have  religious  vocations?" 

"  Maybe,  Monsieur  PAvocat." 

''Both  of  you?" 

"Both  of  us." 

I  managed  to  learn  that  he  was  entering  a  Laz- 
arist  Foreign  Missions  Seminary,  and  she  the 
Novitiate  in  the  Eue  du  Bac,  where  she  would 
eventually  take  the  hood  of  a  Sister  of  Mercy. 
They  had  perfected  their  plans  together  during 
the  long  winter  evenings.  The  time  Etienne  had 
spent  at  the  Seminary  had  left  a  deep  impression 
upon  him  which  had  been  strengthened  by  his 
doubts  and  tribulations.  The  church  was  his 
refuge,  and  into  the  church  he  was  now  leading 
his  sister,  an  unselfish,  unreflecting  girl.  She 
was  grateful  to  her  brother  for  taking  the  trouble 
to  plan  her  life  for  her. 

They  were  both  destined  to  go  to  China  which 
they  heard  a  great  deal  about  from  missionaries, 
who  had  either  described  it  in  letters  or  related 
in  person  the  magic  wonders  of  the  Far  East. 

Like  Jean-Pierre,  they  too  wished  to  set  their 
affairs  in  order  before  leaving.  That  explained 


182  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

Etienne 's  desire  for  emancipation,  as  he  believed 
it  would  enable  him  to  dispose  of  his  property. 
Actually,  it  could  not  annul  his  legal  status  as  a 
minor.  Etienne,  according  to  his  grandfather's 
last  wishes,  was  owner  of  the  greater  part  of  the 
family  property.  He  and  Bina  wanted  to  leave 
everything  to  Jean-Marie. 

"At  your  death?" 

"No.  Eight  now.  We  don't  want  to  take  any- 
thing with  us." 

They  felt  that  the  money  was  tainted,  that  was 
clear. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  I  regularized 
the  last  wishes  of  these  emancipated  minors.  I 
drew  up  a  document  by  which  they  gave  up  all 
claim  to  their  property  in  favor  of  their  younger 
brother,  and  sent  them  to  a  notary  to  make  out 
the  act  in  proper  form.  This  would  serve  as  a 
basis  for  the  long  and  complicated  series  of  docu- 
ments which  was  necessary  because  of  the  excep- 
tional circumstances.  Then  I  asked  them  both  to 
dinner,  but  they  refused :  they  had  not  time  before 
the  train  left.  Just  as  they  were  leaving  I  ad- 
dressed Etienne: 

"Well,  Etienne,  what  about  Melanie!" 

My  very  natural  question  agitated  him.  Had 
he  hoped  I  would  not  ask!  I  knew  it  would  cause 
him  a  certain  remorse,  for  it  reminded  him  of  hap- 
piness lost  at  the  moment  he  seemed  about  to 
enjoy  it 


HAMLET'S  BETROTHAL  183 

"Melanie" — he  began,  lingering  on  the  name  as 
if  he  were  pronouncing  a  forbidden  word  for  the 
last  time. 

"She  must  be  heart-broken,  poor  child  I " 

He  protested : 

"She  doesn't  want  me.    I  explained." 

What  had  he  explained?  Had  he  told  her  his 
secret  in  order  to  justify  breaking  off  the  engage- 
ment? Unthinkable.  Melanie  surely  would  have 
trusted  or  even  forgiven  him  without  being  told, 
no  matter  what  the  effort  cost  her.  She  was  one 
of  those  women  who  allow  their  hearts  to  be  torn 
out  rather  than  utter  a  complaint  or  a  protest, 
because  they  understand  nothing  but  love. 

"There  may  soon  be  another  marriage  up 
there,"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth. 

I  guessed  his  meaning,  and  said  no  more.  So 
that  was  why  he  was  going! 

And  I  kissed  these  two  as  I  had  kissed  their 
grandfather.  I  would  never  see  them  again,  I 
meditated,  and  I  alone  knew  the  secret  reason  for 
their  vocation. 

"Good-bye,  Etienne — good-by,  Rina."  I  was 
more  deeply  moved  than  I  dared  admit  to  myself. 
I  said  little,  for  it  was  my  duty  to  respect  the 
wishes  of  the  young  man  who  had  decided  not  to 
reveal  the  secret,  the  weight  of  which  rested  on 
his  shoulders  alone.  Indeed,  it  seemed,  as  the  old 
man  had  said,  that  those  shoulders  were  not  broad 


184  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

enough,  and  as  though  he  were  at  last  asking  help 
where  help  is  never  refused. 

I  watched  brother  and  sister  descend  the  stairs. 
They  too,  like  Jean-Pierre,  were  paying  the  price. 
I  turnd  back  and  called  to  mind  the  great  figure 
of  Christ  on  the  cross  at  Bessans,  his  body  bent 
under  the  avalanche  of  human  sorrow,  but  with 
his  head  high. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  THE  CAVES  OP  THE  AISNB 

I  HAD  not  been  to  Bessans  for  many  years. 

Some  time  after  the  departure  of  Etienne  and 
Rina  I  learned  of  the  marriage  of  Maddalena  and 
Benoit.  Nobody  of  course  was  surprised;  the 
two  could  not  otherwise  have  continued  to  live 
together  under  the  same  roof.  It  was,  besides,  a 
matter  of  great  practical  convenience,  as  it  put  a 
stop  to  village  gossip,  facilitated  the  handling  of 
the  property — which  had  not  been  divided — and 
enabled  Jean-Marie  to  profit  from  Benoit 's  in- 
struction in  matters  of  farm-management.  The 
peasant  who  brought  me  this  news  descanted  at 
great  length  on  the  many  excellent  reasons  for 
the  marriage,  and  gave  me  the  impression  that 
he  was  anxious  to  convince  me  of  their  validity. 

So  the  murderer  and  his  accomplice  were  living 
their  life  together,  unpunished,  respected  by  the 
community,  rid  at  last  of  every  member  of  the 
household  who  might  pass  judgment  on  them, 
accompanied  only  by  one  boy,  the  fruit  possibly 
of  their  guilty  passion,  a  boy  whose  youth  and 
temperament  prevented  his  inquiring  too  closely 
into  the  past.  As  for  myself,  I  could  do  nothing : 
I  could  not  accuse  them  without  betraying  the 
secret  of  Jean-Pierre's  sacrifice  and  that  of 

185 


186  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

Etienne  and  Rina.  But  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
be  a  witness  of  their  prosperity,  or  a  party  to  it, 
so  I  gave  up  my  hunting  lease  at  La  Lombarde. 
Henceforth  I  hunted  with  Vimines  and  Laval  on 
their  preserves  in  the  Dauphine  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Lovitel. 

Then  came  the  War,  overshadowing  the  drama 
of  the  Couvert  House,  as  it  overshadowed  many 
another.  As  a  result  of  one  of  those  fortuitous 
circumstances  which  seem  foreordained  and  which 
Joseph  de  Maistre  would  attribute  to  supernatu- 
ral design,  I  was  to  meet  during  the  struggle  the 
last  descendant  of  Jean-Pierre,  and  through  him 
to  witness  the  unexpected  denouement  of  that 
drama. 

You  will  remember  how  after  the  military  com- 
plications of  May  and  June,  1917,  were  ultimately 
solved  by  the  adoption  of  a  unified  command,  the 
armies  were  restored  to  their  earlier  morale,  and 
to  confidence  by  the  victories  at  Verdun  and  La 
Malmaison.  I  had  been  attached  to  the  Head- 
quarters of  the  llth  Corps  then  under  the  com- 
mand of  General  Maud'huy  and  was  present  at 
the  taking  of  the  Fort  of  La  Malmaison.  It  was 
there  that  I  met  Jean-Marie  Couvert.  It  was  so 
natural,  so  providential,  and  at  the  same  time  so 
strange. 

Do  I  owe  the  extraordinary  clarity  of  my  im- 
pressions on  this  occasion  to  that  happy  episode 
of  martial  victory? 

General  Maud'huy  had  put  me  on  his  staff  out 


IN  THE  CAVES  OF  THE  AISNE        187 

of  pure  friendship,  because  I  had  answered  the 
call  to  arms  after  the  manner  of  the  old  tales  of 
chivalry,  for  I  was  an  assiduous  reader  of  Be- 
dier's  Legendes  £  piques  and  knew  by  heart  whole 
passages  of  the  Quatre  fils  Aymon  and  the  Chan- 
son de  Roland.  The  general  was  also  an  en- 
thusiast, loving  as  I  did  the  old  chansons  de  geste. 
He  was  fond  of  quoting  to  me  those  parts  of 
the  Quatre  fils  Aymon  that  treat  of  honor  and 
filial  respect  and  the  brotherhood  of  arms.  He 
took  particular  pleasure  in  telling  of  Tristan's 
master  who  taught  him  never  to  tell  a  lie. 

"That,"  he  added,  " explains  the  quality  of  his 
love  for  Yseult." 

He  often  took  me  with  him  on  his  tours  of  in- 
spection. The  moment  the  men  caught  sight  of 
the  wiry  little  man,  straight  as  an  arrow,  broad- 
shouldered,  precise,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  you 
could  feel  every  man  thrill  with  the  knowledge 
that  all  was  well.  He  chatted  with  his  men  with 
the  utmost  freedom  and  good-humor,  and  dis- 
tributed tobacco  on  all  occasions.  He  must  have 
spent  a  fortune  on  that.  A  word  from  him,  or  a 
gesture,  brought  gaiety  to  the  most  stolid  soldiers, 
for  his  word  was  the  right  word,  and  his  gesture 
the  right  gesture.  He  must  have  derived  from 
Merlin  his  power  to  transform  the  character  and 
spirit  of  places:  at  his  coming  the  trenches  as- 
sumed an  entirely  new  aspect.  The  secret  of  his 
miraculous  power  lay,  of  course,  in  his  heart. 


188  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

I  was  again  with  the  General  when  he  was 
forced  back  along  the  edge  of  the  Forest  of  Vil- 
lers-Cotterets  during  the  great  German  offensive 
at  the  Aisne.  He  held  the  Forest.  Had  the  enemy 
managed  to  penetrate,  it  would  have  meant  im- 
mediate danger  for  Compiegne  and  a  free  road 
to  Paris.  But  whether  in  joy  or  anxiety,  victory 
or  retreat,  his  magic  charm  never  failed.  He 
might  be  worn  out  with  fatigue  and  worry,  but 
his  magnificent  soul  ever  dominated  the  flesh.  His 
mind  was  as  alert,  and  his  soul  as  fresh  and  in- 
spired, under  the  most  adverse  conditions. 
Though  he  spoke  to  everybody  he  never  confused 
one  man  with  another;  he  remembered  the  fea- 
tures of  everyone  he  saw.  There  were  no  anony- 
mous units  for  him,  only  brothers-in-arms.  "I 
collect  eyes,"  he  told  me  on  the  eve  of  La  Mal- 
maison.  "I  have  seen  many  since  the  beginning 
of  the  War.  I  could  write  its  history  on  the  basis 
of  the  eyes  alone.  There  are  the  eyes  of  faith  and 
hope,  that  was  at  the  beginning;  eyes  of  infinite 
anguish  during  the  retreat  from  Sarrebourg; 
triumphant  eyes  after  the  Marne,  but  with  a  touch 
of  gravity,  expressing  doubt  as  to  the  decisive 
importance  of  the  victory;  indifferent  eyes  that 
had  seen  the  mud  and  misery  of  1915 ;  terrible  and 
determined  eyes  at  Verdun — those  were  the  fierc- 
est eyes  of  all;  and  eyes  almost  discouraged 
by  that  tragic  May  of  last  year.  But  now  I  seem 
to  see  ardent  eyes  that  have  had  their  faith  re- 


IN  THE  CAVES  OF  THE  AISNE         189 

stored.  La  Malmaison  and  the  Chemin  des  Dames 
will  be  ours." 

And  he  added  a  short  quotation  from  one  of 
the  innumerable  books  he  had  read : 

"Do  you  remember,  in  War  and  Peace,  that 
page  on  Borodino?  Prince  Andre  says  to  Peter 
Bezhoukov:  "Victory  has  never  depended  and 
never  will  depend  upon  position,  weapons,  or  num- 
bers.' 'Upon  what  then  does  it  depend?'  'It  de- 
pends upon  my  feelings  and  upon  the  feelings  of 
each  soldier.'  " 

I  took  advantage  of  the  General's  amiable 
humor  to  ask  him  a  favor: 

"I  should  like  to  see  these  feelings  in  opera- 
tion, General.  Will  you  allow  me  to  observe  at 
first-hand?" 

"If  you  promise  you  will  do  your  best  to  come 
back  and  tell  me  about  it!  With  whom  do  you 
want  to  march?" 

"With  the  Chasseurs.  There  are  doubtless  a 
number  of  Savoyards  among  them." 

' '  True.  You  want  to  be  with  your  own  people. 
However  the  4th  Zouaves  are  going  to  attack  the 
Fort." 

"Then  I'll  go  with  the  4th  Zouaves.  I  know  the 
Commandant,  Clermont-Tonnerre." 

' '  So  you  know  Clermont  ? ' ' 

"I  knew  him  before  the  War — I  did  social  work 
with  him.  But  you'll  allow  me  to  visit  the  Chas- 
seurs before,  won't  you,  General?" 


190  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"Of  course.  I  wish  I  were  going  with  you! 
But  I  must  finish  working  out  some  details." 

The  General's  Corps  consisted  of  two  Divisions, 
the  38th,  composed  of  sharpshooters  and  Zouaves, 
and  the  66th,  Chasseur  Battalions.  It  was  the 
business  of  this  Corps  to  capture  the  Chemin  des 
Dames,  which  runs  along  the  foot  of  the  old  dis- 
mantled Fort  of  La  Malmaison,  and  then  to  reach 
the  Ailette.  The  Chemin  des  Dames  is  a  long 
ridge  with  spurs  shooting  out  from  it  at  right- 
angles  ;  it  is  very  much  like  some  animals  with  an 
abnormally  elongated  back,  and  any  number  of 
feet.  Now  this  ridge,  lying  between  the  Aisne 
and  the  Ailette,  is  a  decidedly  important  mili- 
tary obstacle,  rendered  doubly  difficult  by  the  con- 
figuration of  this  part  of  the  Laonnois,  a  region 
of  caves,  abandoned  quarries  and  huge  subter- 
ranean mushroom-beds,  sometimes  deep  and  wide 
enough  to  hold  an  entire  regiment.  In  order, 
therefore,  to  conquer  such  terrain  you  must  work 
not  only  above  but  under  the  ground. 

The  dismantled  Fort  of  La  Malmaison  domi- 
nates the  whole  of  that  sloping  plateau.  The 
Giraud  Batallion  of  4th  Zouaves  was  to  under- 
take the  attack. 

"I'm  going  to  call  that  post  over  there  the 
Josephine  Post/'  said  Commandant.  "Allow  me 
to  invite  you  to  tea.'* 

"I  accept  with  pleasure. " 

The  Zouaves  were  to  be  supported  on  the  right 


IN  THE  CAVES  OF  THE  AISNE        191 

by  a  battalion  of  sharpshooters  that  would  occupy 
the  Orme  Farm,  and  by  the  6th  Battalion  of 
Chasseurs,  operating  against  the  Bois  de  Veau. 
The  Avricourt  Cave  on  the  Mont-sans-Pain  Plat- 
eau now  served  as  a  post  for  the  staff  of  young 
Colonel  Besson  commanding  the  4th  Zouaves, 
which  had  fought  at  Montceau-les-Provins,  Ypres, 
Vaux-Chapitre,  Douaumont,  Louvemont  and 
Hurtebise.  What  glories  do  these  names  evoke! 
Do  they  not  alone  equal  the  glories  of  the  Grande 
Armee!  From  Avricourt  it  was  my  intention  to  go 
on  the  evening  before  the  attack  to  the  plateau 
where  the  Hameret  farm  was  situated,  to  the  Cave 
of  Le  Caid,  and  the  Penguin  Quarry,  where  the 
6th  Battalion  was  then  stationed.  Commandant 
Frere,  who  was  in  command  and  too  busy  at  the 
time  to  receive  me,  turned  me  over  to  his  adju- 
tant, Captain  'Chalumeau.  Together  with  him  I 
made  the  rounds,  distributing  the  General's  to- 
bacco, and  doing  my  best  to  encourage  the  men, 
stationed  everywhere  in  caves  and  grottoes.  I  in- 
quired about  my  fellow-provincials  and  found  a 
good  many  of  them.  To  these  I  was  especially 
generous.  The  volunteer  Savoyard  contingents 
had  been  made  into  foot  Chasseurs.  As  we 
stopped  before  the  quarters  of  one  company,  the 
Captain  answered  my  question: 

"Savoyards?  Only  one  here,  I  think,  but  he's 
a  good  one.  Little  Convert. " 

"Jean-Marie  Couvert  from  Bessans  in  the 
Maurienne?" 


192  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

*  *  Do  yon  know  him  ?    We  '11  have  him  called. ' ' 

While  one  of  the  men  went  off  to  find  Jean- 
Marie,  the  Captain,  whom  I  had  thought  a  rather 
stolid  and  indifferent  type,  gave  me  an  example 
of  " spiritual  paternity,"  that  intimate  relation- 
ship between  officer  and  man  which  is  the  glory  of 
our  Army. 

"So  little  Convert  is  a  compatriot.  Then  he 
shan't  go.'* 

"Has  he  done  anything  wrong,  Captain?" 

* '  On  the  contrary,  I  am  well  pleased  with  him. 
He's  the  life  and  soul  of  the  Company,  or  rather 
was.  He  was  a  happy,  rollicking  boy,  clever  as 
the  devil  with  his  hands;  he's  as  good  at  carving 
canes  and  making  aluminum  rings  as  he  is  at  clip- 
ping barbed  wire  or  throwing  hand-grenades ;  he 
cooks  better  than  anybody  else,  sings  songs  of 
his  native  district,  and  by  George,  he  can  wiggle 
his  ears  and  forehead  besides!  He's  a  real  trea- 
sure. I  don't  know  what  the  men  would  do  without 
him." 

My  companion  could  not  help  realizing  the 
pleasure  he  gave  me  by  his  description  of  Jean- 
Marie.  It  was,  you  see,  a  portrait  of  Claude.  The 
resemblance  between  father  and  son  was  unmis- 
takable. There  was  not  a  trace  of  Benoit.  No, 
that  idea  was  preposterous. 

"A  first-rate  soldier,  then,"  I  said. 

"Yes,   but   now  he's   altogether  changed.     I 


IN  THE  CAVES  OF  THE  AISNE        193 

hardly  recognise  him.  He  seems  worried,  sad, 
touchy.  He  speaks  to  nobody.  I  asked  him  if 
he  were  sick,  and  even  had  him  examined.  There 
was  nothing  the  matter :  he  was  simply  a  changed 
man.  I  can't  explain  it.  He  now  volunteers — 
asks  to  be  sent  on  the  most  dangerous  missions. 
To-night,  for  instance,  he  is  one  of  a  patrol  sent 
out  to  explore  the  Casse-tete  trench. 

"Well,  the  boy  has  nerve." 

"My  dear  friend,  soldiers  don't  usually  go  out 
of  their  way  to  look  for  danger.  When  you're 
facing  death,  death  all  the  time,  there's  no  need  in 
pressing  the  point.  No,  something's  happened  to 
the  boy — we  don't  know  what.  I've  questioned 
him,  but  he  won't  answer.  You've  known  him 
for  so  long,  try  to  find  out  what's  the  matter.  I'm 
immensely  fond  of  him,  I  couldn't  ask  for  a  better 
courier.  I'm  going  to  send  him  to-morrow  to  La 
Malmaison  in  order  to  be  sure  that  our  advance 
synchronizes  with  that  of  the  Zouaves." 

"To  the  Fort?  I  may  be  there  myself — I  knew 
the  boy  very  well  when  he  was  a  great  deal 
younger.  How  long  ago  did  this  change  take 
place?" 

"Since  his  last  leave,  not  long  ago.  He  came 
back  before  his  time  was  up.  As  a  rule,  you  know, 
the  boys  return  in  the  pink  of  perfection.  He  was 
in  the  dumps.  A  love  affair  ?  Had  his  girl  thrown 
him  over  while  he  was  away?  Such  things  will 
happen.  Good  Lord,  I  don't  see  why  they  should 


194,  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

attach  so  much  importance  to  these  little  affairs  T 
One  woman's  about  the  same  as  another,  don't 
you  think!" 

I  saw  I  was  dealing  with  a  philosopher  to  whom 
sentimental  complications  meant  very  little.  I 
thought  of  another  reason  for  Jean-Marie's  sor- 
row, but  I  didn't  care  to  mention  it.  I  was  now 
more  anxious  than  ever  to  see  him  and  ask  him 
questions.  I  wondered  if  I  would  recognise  him. 
Years  had  passed  since  I  last  hunted  in  the  Mauri- 
enne,  three  of  which  were  the  dark  years  of  war. 
My  last  view  of  him  was  at  the  betrothal  of  his 
brother  Etienne;  he  was  merely  a  boy  then;  I 
would  now  find  him  a  grown  man.  I  wondered 
how  he  would  react  to  any  advances  I  might  make. 
Would  he  remember  the  friend  of  his  grandfather, 
his  father,  and  his  elder  brother?  Would  he  be 
communicative,  or  silent;  cordial,  or  indifferent? 

The  cave  in  which  a  part  of  the  battalion  was 
massed  is  so  far  underground  that  you  can  hardly 
hear  a  concerted  artillery  action  above.  It  was 
divided  by  nature  into  a  number  of  separate  com- 
partments, and  lighted  by  an  improvised  electric 
plant.  Here  lived  a  seething  horde  of  men,  wait- 
ing for  orders:  Chasseurs,  engineers,  pioneers, 
stretcher-bearers.  Some  were  playing  cards,  some 
eating  with  that  proverbial  appetite  of  the  soldier 
who  is  always  ready  to  absorb  food  as  if  to  com- 
pensate himself  for  the  days  when  there  is  none ; 
some  slept,  others  wrote  letters  by  the  light  of 


IN  THE  CAVES  OF  THE  AISNE        195 

small  flickering  candles.  Before  me  spread  out 
that  vast  conglomeration  of  men  living  a  common 
life,  safe  in  the  depths  of  a  cave  where  one  could 
at  least  draw  a  long  breath,  although  the  air  was 
scarcely  breathable.  That  there  was  anguish  in 
the  breasts  of  these  men  could  not  be  doubted, 
but  there  was  no  evidence  of  it.  The  most  terrible 
part,  to  a  sensitive  man,  was  the  impossibility  of 
being  alone.  In  war  there  are  no  individuals :  or 
rather,  the  battalion  is  the  only  individual.  The 
soldier  eats,  sleeps,  plays,  thinks,  fights,  dies  in 
company  with  his  fellow  soldiers.  No  one,  liter- 
ally, can  call  his  life  his  own,  nor  his  thoughts, 
nor  his  love.  I  looked  into  these  young  faces  with 
mingled  feelings  of  pity  and  affection.  "Which  of 
us  was  sure  to  be  alive  on  the  morrow? 

I  heard  my  name  spoken  and  turning  round  I 
saw  Jean-Marie  Couvert.  I  flashed  my  little  elec- 
tric torch  into  his  face  and  .was  immediately 
struck  by  the  unmistakable  resemblance  to  his 
father.  He  was  as  like  Claude  in  the  flesh  as  in  the 
spirit — as  I  was  able  to  judge  from  the  Captain's 
description  of  him.  My  pleasure  at  this  discovery 
was  so  evident  and  my  greeting  so  cordial  that 
the  young  man  immediately  unbent.  I  began  by 
recalling  the  happy  scenes  at  Bessans  and  at  our 
chalet  in  the  mountains.  I  then  referred  to  mat- 
ters nearer  his  heart: 

"And  wh,at's  happened  to  Etienne?  Is  he  in 
the  army!" 


196  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"No,  Lieutenant,  he  was  refused." 

"Refused,  one  of  our  fine  healthy  Savoyards!" 

"On  account  of  his  lungs.  At  least,  that's  what 
they  said.  They  didn't  really  want  him.  He  went 
to  China  afterward. 

"A  missionary ?" 

"Yes,  Lieutenant — to  Tientsin.  My  sister 
Rina  went  with  him.  She 's  in  the  hospital  there." 

"Do  you  hear  from  them?" 

"Sometimes,  Lieutenant.  They're  pretty  far 
away." 

He  accompanied  this  last  statement  with  a 
vague  gesture  as  if  to  explain  that  one  had  no 
right  to  expect  news  from  people  who  live  at  the 
other  end  of  the  world.  The  boy  seemed  to  con- 
sider that  his  brother  and  sister  had  definitely 
gone  out  of  his  life.  Jean-Marie  spoke  with  that 
ease  of  manner  which  is  characteristic  of  the 
Maurienne  peasants,  particularly  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Haute-Maurienne,  who  own  property  and 
are  proudly  conscious  of  their  independence.  But 
he  had  neither  the  education  nor  the  intelligence 
of  his  elder  brother.  It  was  therefore  not  to  be 
expected  that  he  would  concern  himself  with  the 
family  drama.  Besides,  Claude's  murder  was  so 
long  ago.  I  made  a  rapid  mental  calculation:  it 
was  eight  years  ago — the  ten  years  necessary  to 
outlaw  the  crime  had  not  yet  elapsed.  Why  should 
I  bother  about  it?  The  past  was  the  past,  I  had 


IN  THE  CAVES  OF  THE  AISNE         197 

no  business  thinking  of  it.    I  then  asked  about 
the  others: 

"And  what  of  your  grandfather  ? " 
"I  don't  know  anything  about  him." 
"Is  he  still  alive  and  at  Hautecombe ? " 
"I  think  so." 

"He  must  be  going  on  seventy-five? — does  he 
write  you?" 
"Never." 

"Are  you  sure  he's  not  dead?" 
"Oh,  we'd  know  that,  Lieutenant." 
But  the  old  man  was  dead  so  far  as  everyone 
else  was  concerned.    He  had  given  up  his  posses- 
sions ;  he  no  longer  counted.    He  had  himself  un- 
derstood this,  and  gave  no  sign  of  life:  he  had 
willingly,  knowingly,  buried  himself  among  the 
Princes  of  the  House  of  Savoy. 

There  was  one  more  question  I  wanted  to  ask, 
a  question  affecting  two  people  that  I  had  kept 
to  the  last.     It  was  a  natural  question,  and  I 
asked  it  in  a  perfunctory  way: 
"And  how  is  your  mother,  Jean-Marie?" 
"Mama,"  he  said,  as  if  that  single  word  were  a 
reply  in  itself. 

He  was  not  in  a  mood  for  conversation.  Per- 
haps, facing  death  as  he  was  and  appearing  to 
wish  it,  he  had  determined  not  to  try  to  dissimu- 
late anything.  Poor  boy,  he  didn't  know  how 
unerringly  that  silence  had  betrayed  his  secret. 
He  too  knew,  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 


198  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

speak  of  his  mother ;  he  had  learned  the  truth  on 
the  occasion  of  his  last  leave,  from  which  he  had 
returned  a  "  changed  man."  Like  his  elder 
brother  he  was  faced  with  the  horrible  truth,  and 
again  like  Etienne  he  was  torn  between  duty  and 
filial  reticence.  The  tragedy  of  Hamlet  was  be- 
ginning all  over  again. 

How  had  he  learned  the  secret?  Had  he,  like 
Etienne,  spied  upon  the  criminals,  or  had  the 
light  suddenly  been  revealed  to  him  through  their 
carelessness,  by  one  of  those  imprudent  blunders 
that  even  "the  cleverest  criminals"  cannot  avoid 
making!  I  inclined  to  the  opinion  that  the  discov- 
ery was  instantaneous,  made  probably  on  the  oc- 
casion of  his  unexpected  return  on  leave.  I  was 
not  to  learn  this  until  later,  and  then  not  fully, 
but  my  surmise  was  in  the  main  correct.  I  felt 
sorry  for  Jean-Marie,  believing  that  I  had  no 
right  to  allow  him  to  perceive  my  own  anxiety.  He 
must  not  think  that  I  knew  the  secret. 

Or  maybe  I  was  wrong,  that  I  had  misinter- 
preted his  silence?  It  may  have  been  no  more 
than  resentment  toward  his  mother  for  re-marry- 
ing, or  anger  at  what  he  considered  an  intrusion 
on  the  part  of  his  stepfather.  Or  finally,  there 
may  have  been  a  quarrel  over  some  question  of 
property.  It  is  always  easy  to  find  explanations, 
and  as  I  have  often  said,  every  event  presents 
two  aspects. 

But  I  dared  not  mention  Benoit,  and  brought 


IN  THE  CAVES  OF  THE  AISNE         199 

the  conversation  back  to  commonplaces,  asking 
Jean-Marie  whether  he  were  in  need  of  tobacco, 
brandy,  or  cash.  He  deigned  to  accept,  as  a  favor 
— the  proud  Mauriennais — a  few  bars  of  choco- 
late. As  he  was  about  to  go  I  laid  an  affectionate 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  my  dear  boy.  I  was  your 
father's  friend,  and  your  grandfather's.  If  you 
need  a  friend,  you  may  count  on  me,  always." 

"Thanks,  Lieutenant.    I  don't  need  anything." 

"You  never  can  tell.  Well,  you'll  do  your  duty 
all  right,  I  know.  But  you'll  be  careful,  won't 
you?" 

On  whose  behalf  could  I  ask  it?  You  ordinarily 
ask  a  young  man  to  be  careful  for  his  mother's 
sake,  but  could  I  do  this  with  Jean-Marie? 

"You're  not  engaged  to  anyone  in  Bessans,  are 
you?" 

"No,  Lieutenant." 

"Too  bad.  Well,  you'll  marry  when  the  war's 
over.  You'll  be  a  wealthy  proprietor.  You  know, 
that  was  what  your  brother  and  sister  wanted." 

I  was  doing  my  best  to  interest  him  in  life,  but 
he  made  no  reply.  As  I  could  think  of  nothing 
more  to  say,  I  turned  to  go. 

"There  may  be  one  thing  you  can  do,  Lieu- 
tenant." 

"I'll  be  glad  to  do  it." 

"A  letter  for  Etienne." 


200  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  letter  which  was 
sealed  and  addressed. 

"Send  it  to  China?  Certainly.  It'll  go  sooner 
if  I  send  it  with  Headquarters  mail." 

"No,  not  that.  It's  to  be  sent  only  in  case  of 
— accident. ' ' 

"I  understand.  I'll  keep  it  for  you.  And  I 
hope — there  will  be  no  accidents.  A  mountaineer 
like  you  ought  to  know  how  to  avoid  accidents. 
However,  I  may  meet  with  one  before  you." 

And  again  he  made  a  vague  gesture. 

The  letter  was  evidently  his  will.  I  tried  not 
to  attach  too  great  importance  to  his  presenti- 
ment, and  shook  his  hand  nonchalantly. 

"Good-bye.  I  may  see  you  at  La  Malmaison 
tomorrow,  if  you  go  with  your  battalion." 

He  gave  me  a  searching  glance,  saluted,  and 
turned  away.  Yes,  he  had  Jean-Pierre's  eyes, 
and  Etienne's;  just  then  they  reminded  me  of 
the  two  occasions  on  which  the  others  had  bade 
me  good-bye — they  were  full  of  determination,  il- 
luminated by  an  inner  light.  I  had  kissed  the 
others,  why  had  I  not  kissed  the  last,  who  was  per- 
haps about  to  embark  on  a  more  distant  journey? 

"Well?"  asked  the  Captain. 

"A  fine  boy.  Keep  your  eye  on  him;  he'll  go 
anywhere  if  you'll  let  him." 

"I  know,  but  without  his  old  light-hearted- 
ness." 

"You  can't  always  be  gay." 

"Of  course  not.    It's  too  bad,  though." 


CHAPTER  XI 

LA  MALMAISON 

As  I  left  the  cave  to  join  the  Zouaves  on  the 
Mont-sans-Pain  Plateau,  the  evening  shadows  had 
begun  to  hide  the  already  overcast  day.  The 
slopes  of  the  Chemin  des  Dames,  to-morrow's  ob- 
jective, looked  like  phantoms.  I  could  scarcely 
distinguish  the  outlines  of  the  old  fort  on  the  hill. 
A  Y-shaped  tree,  dear  to  the  heart  of  artillery- 
men who  used  it  in  calculating  ranges,  helped 
me  to  make  out  its  position.  I  knew  that  the 
first  three  lines  of  German  trenches — which  we 
called  Casse-tete,  Liebnitz,  and  Carabine — would 
have  to  be  taken  before  we  could  reach  the  ditches 
round  the  fort.  I  scanned  every  part  of  this 
territory,  now  almost  dark  in  the  approaching 
evening:  yonder  was  Laon,  and  beyond  that  Me- 
zieres  and  the  Meuse,  the  last  of  the  occupied 
zone.  Ah,  what  if  we  should  be  able  to  catch 
sight  next  day  of  the  towers  of  Laon  Cathedral ! 

Our  artillery  boomed  incessantly.  Overhead  I 
heard  the  constant  whirring  of  our  shells.  The 
German  answer  to  this  cannonade  was  not  so 

regular,  but  it  was  deadly  poisonous. 

201 


S03  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"We'll  have  to  put  on  our  masks,  Lieutenant," 
said  the  Zouave  who  was  with  me. 

The  enemy  were  using  that  burning  gas  that 
eats  into  the  eyes  and  skin.  A  company  of  masked 
men  passed  us  on  the  road.  They  looked  dia- 
bolic in  their  Tissot  tube  masks.  The  country 
we  were  passing  through  was  a  haunted  region 
full  of  evil  omens.  But  what  were  the  sorceries 
of  old  compared  with  the  accursed  inventions  of 
man! 

In  order  to  reach  the  post  at  Avricourt  we 
had  to  pass  through  the  cut  of  the  Intendance, 
a  spot  constantly  under  enemy  fire.  Parts  of 
this  had  even  caved  in.  It  ran  down  a  steep  and 
difficult  slope — just  where  our  manoauvres  were 
to  be  made  on  the  morrow,  and  the  wounded  cared 
for. 

The  Avricourt  post,  hardly  500  meters  behind 
the  front,  was  an  abandoned  quarry.  Two  com- 
panies now  occupied  it:  Engineers,  the  Head- 
quarters staff  (including  couriers)  telephone  op- 
erators— the  usual  personnel.  And  of  course  the 
stretcher-bearers.  They  were  all  crowded  into 
that  narrow  pit.  At  night  the  fighting  units  must 
effect  their  formations  there  as  well. 

I  watched  the  men  as  the  General  addressed 
to  them  a  few  quiet  words:  "You  are  the  Victors 
of  Douaumont,  you  will  be  the  Victors  of  La  Mal- 
maison. "  There  was  no  doubt  of  this  in  the  men's 
minds.  They  had  been  given  the  fort,  it  was 


LA  MALMAISON  203 

theirs.  They  would  be  victors,  but  not  all  of  them. 
This  is  what  they  think,  though  the  thought  is 
not  translated  into  words.  As  the  hour  ap- 
proaches they  chat  idly  and  make  their  last 
preparations. 

A  regiment,  like  a  nation,  is  composed  of  the 
living  and  the  dead.  It  has  its  tradition  as  well 
as  its  flag.  But  this  is  a  regiment  among  regi- 
ments— it  is  unique.  Composed  of  Algerians  at 
the  beginning  of  the  "War,  it  now  comprises 
Zouaves  from  every  province  of  France  and  Al- 
geria. But  they  are  always  Zouaves.  When  they 
are  not  in  action,  they  proudly  wear  their  dis- 
tinctive chechias,  lending  vivid  touches  of  red 
when  lighted  by  the  electricity  of  the  caves. 

I  make  haste  to  join  Lieutenant-Colonel  Besson, 
a  wonderful  officer,  a  man  of  calm  demeanor  with 
a  great  heart,  and  a  great  expert  in  the  art  of 
military  operations.  His  adjutant,  Major  de  Cler- 
mont-Tonnerre,  is  a  man  who  exerts  moral  influ- 
ence through  courtesy  and  a  soft  persuasive  man- 
ner, which  never  deserts  him  even  in  the  most 
critical  moments.  At  Hurtebise  he  was  seen  tak- 
ing back  into  battle  a  number  of  his  men  who  had 
just  been  relieved,  with  the  same  calm  assurance 
and  serenity  as  always ! 

Here  too  was  the  Chaplain,  little  Pere  Joyeux, 
thin  and  sickly,  with  hardly  a  body  at  all,  only 
a  soul. 

In  a  small  room  lighted  with  miners'  acetylene 


204  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

lamps,  General  Giraud  is  in  conference  with  his 
staff.  It  is  his  particular  job  to  take  the  fort. 
A  long  plank  supported  by  saw-horses  is  his 
table,  and  on  this  is  spread  out  the  map,  fastened 
down  with  thumb-tacks.  Behind  the  officers  is 
a  large  mirror,  brought  there  by  no  one  knows 
whom,  which  reflects  the  cavernous  room  to  end- 
less lengths. 

I  sit  back  a  little,  not  to  be  in  the  way,  and 
study  the  heads.  I  suppose  I  acquired  my  in- 
terest in  eyes  from  the  Major.  He  stands  up  to 
explains  his  plans  to  the  others  He  is  a  tall,  spare 
man  with  steel-blue  eyes;  a  man  whose  military 
exploits  have  already  become  legendary.  He  was 
wounded  at  Guise  early  in  the  war,  and  left  for 
dead  on  the  field  of  battle,  but  managed  by  a 
superhuman  effort  to  escape  death  and  capture. 

I  wonder  who  is  the  youngest.  Marasquin,  who 
leads  the  pioneers,  or  De  Champfeu,  the  cavalry 
officer  with  eyes  darting  fire?  I  had  been  told 
about  his  arrival  in  the  regiment  last  year,  in 
time  for  the  engagement  on  the  16th  of  April. 

He  came  to  the  Colonel,  who  said:  "You've 
arrived  sooner  than  we  expected.  We're  attack- 
ing tomorrow ;  the  posts  are  full.  You  will  there- 
fore take  charge  of  the  Divisional  Depot,  and  I'll 
call  you  at  the  first  vacancy." 

"You  are  attacking  tomorrow  and  you  want  me 
to  take  charge  of  the  Divisional  Depot?  Colo- 
nel, I  come  of  a  race  of  soldiers.  Look  at  me: 


LA  MALMAISON  205 

of  course  you  don't  know  me,  but  look.  Don't  ask 
me  to  do  anything  like  that."  The  Colonel  took 
him. 

Among  these  men  is  a  second  lieutenant  who 
might  well  be  their  grandfather — Villebois-Mare- 
uil,  a  man  of  nearly  sixty.  He  took  the  place 
of  Second-Lieutenant  Trincart,  who  was  sixty- 
four;  he  was  actually  called  grandfather  by  the 
regiment.  He  had  served  in  1870,  and  was  killed 
at  La  Lizerne,  near  Ypres,  in  May,  1915.  Ville- 
bois-Mareuil,  cousin  of  the  famous  Colonel  of  the 
same  name  who  fell  in  the  Transvaal,  enlisted  as 
a  stretcher-bearer,  but  determined  to  enter  the 
ranks.  He  was  satisfied  with  his  lot,  and  always 
smiled  like  a  great  lord  in  his  chateau.  He  has 
the  dignity  of  age — and  the  knowledge  that  death 
is  not  far  off. 

He  now  listens  calmly,  without  entering  the 
discussion.  Champfeu,  on  the  other  hand,  cannot 
restrain  his  excitement.  The  group  is  a  Rem- 
brandt picture  in  chiaroscuro :  each  face  is  lighted 
by  a  small  lamp — they  are  eager  faces,  taut  faces, 
faces  full  of  determination  and  gravity,  faces  that 
express  submission  to  the  decrees  of  fate. 

Toward  midnight  the  two  companies  set  out  to 
take  their  positions  preparatory  to  the  attack. 
I  go  out  a  moment:  the  rain  is  falling,  and  the 
constant  fire  of  our  batteries  has  changed  to  a 
furious  uproar.  The  night  is  rent  by  a  terrific  can- 
nonading, and  the  sky  is  a  mass  of  lightning. 


206  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

The  enemy  is  comparatively  inactive:  onr  men 
will  suffer  small  losses  in  entering  the  trenches. 
The  post  seems  deserted.  Orders  ring  out  sharply, 
but  there  is  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  wait.  We 
chat  together.  Major  Giraud,  who  does  not  join 
his  battalion  until  12.50  A.M.,  tells  us  about  his 
escape. 

He  lay  for  a  time  wounded  at  Charleroi,  with  a 
bullet  in  his  lung,  and  was  later  carried  to  a 
neighboring  town.  The  German  doctor  who 
treated  him,  a  Major  in  the  Medical  Corp,  ap- 
peared to  show  a  friendly  interest,  so  Giraud 
asked  him  to  send  a  letter  to  his  wife,  promising 
that  it  would  contain  no  details,  nothing  but  per- 
sonal news  of  himself.  The  envelope  would  of 
course  be  unsealed.  The  Major  at  first  refused. 
"If  I  were  in  your  place  I'd  do  the  same  for  you," 
said  the  wounded  man.  "Ah,  yes,  you  gallant 
Frenchmen!"  The  next  day  the  German  hands 
the  Frenchman  an  envelope  addressed  to  Giraud 's 
wife.  "This  will  reach  her.  Put  your  letter  in 
it."  The  wounded  man  did  so,  and  the  doctor 
asked  him  to  seal  the  envelope. 

The  letter  arrived  a  month  later. 

"Yes,"  continues  the  narrator,  "it  arrived. 
The  papers  announced  my  death!  But  my  wife 
refused  to  believe  it.  'Have  they  seen  his  body?* 
she  asked.  'Mortally  wounded'  was  the  report. 
'That  is  not  sufficient  for  me.'  She  had  faith, 
you  see." 


LA  MALMAISON  207 

He  speaks  in  a  far-off  voice,  as  if  he  were  in 
reality  a  ghost.  This  persistent  refusal  to  accept 
death  was  common  in  our  homes,  but  how  often 
was  fate  so  kind  to  others  as  it  had  been  with 
Giraud? 

In  the  village  near  Guise  he  had  been  cared  for 
by  the  mayor's  daughter  who  had  gradually  col- 
lected for  him  sufficient  clothes  to  dress  him  in 
a  tramp's  outfit.  One  night  he  said  to  her:  "I'm 
ready  now.  You  promised  me  the  key."  She 
hesitates,  afraid,  and  tries  to  prevent  his  going, 
but  ends  by  giving  him  the  key.  He  manages  to 
escape,  making  his  way  at  last  as  a  tinker  to 
Saint-Quentin,  whence  he  believes  he  will  have 
little  difficulty  in  crossing  the  lines;  but  since 
Charleroi  there  has  been  the  Marne,  and  sea-fight- 
ing, and  trench  warfare.  There  is  no  passing  now 
at  any  point  between  the  Vosges  and  the  Channel. 
He  must  go  north  into  Belgium. 

This  he  did,  acting  all  the  while  his  part  of 
jack-of-all  trades — sometimes  a  groom,  sometimes 
an  accountant,  sometimes  a  charcoal-burner,  and 
once  as  a  clown.  At  length  he  crossed  the  Dutch 
border,  returning  to  France  six  months  later. 
Such  is  the  man  who  is  to  capture  La  Malmaison. 
He  stands  up :  an  hour  has  slipped  by  unperceived 
during  the  recital  of  his  adventures.  The  Colonel 
kisses  him  as  he  leaves,  and  the  two  embrace — 
a  quick  manly  embrace. 

"I'll  be  with  you  shortly,"  I  told  him. 


208  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"The  Josephine  post  is  waiting  for  us.  Tea  is 
served." 

Toward  three  in  the  morning,  after  a  light 
breakfast  of  sardines  and  jam — for  we  are  all 
hungry  and  food  restores  the  spirits — I  set  out 
with  the  Major  who  is  on  his  way  to  address  his 
battalion.  We  make  our  way  up  above  the  quarry. 
The  German  batteries  have  shifted  their  fire  di- 
rectly upon  that  point :  a  terrific  fire,  as  severe  as 
during  the  worst  days  at  Verdun.  Their  shells 
rake  the  whole  terrain  between  the  Mont-sans- 
Pain  Plateau  and  our  front-line  trenches.  It 
seems  as  though  the  enemy  were  aware  of  our 
intended  attack.  Our  losses  will  be  heavy.  And 
what  of  the  influence  upon  our  morale  ?  It  would 
be  impossible  to  pass  through  the  cut — now  filled 
with  soldiers — in  order  to  reach  the  trenches.  We 
must  scale  the  parapet.  We  make  our  way  slowly 
forward,  throwing  ourselves  flat  on  the  ground 
every  time  a  shell  explodes.  We  are  lucky  to 
escape  with  no  more  than  a  shower  of  earth  and 
stones. 

One  of  the  men  ahead  of  me  falls — his  head 
blown  to  pieces.  A  quick  groan — that  is  all. 
Another  groan  behind  me — a  shoulder  wound  and 
the  man  turns  back.  There  is  a  dull  sensation  in 
one  of  my  arms ;  by  an  incredible  freak  of  chance 
it  is  only  a  stone.  I  feel  at  once  for  my  portfolio. 
What  would  happen  to  Jean-Marie's  letter  if  an 
accident  occurred?  I  meant  to  have  left  it  at  the 


LA  MALMAISON  209 

post,  but  I  forgot.  The  boy  had  absolute  faith 
in  me,  and  I  had  neglected  to  keep  my  promise. 
Well,  he'll  come  back  safe  and  so  will  I,  and  I'll 
return  his  will  to  him.  One  always  thinks  of 
others'  danger,  never  of  one's  own,  such  is  the 
tenacity  of  our  desire  to  live.  But  is  this  a  will? 
What  can  he  have  written  to  his  brother?  The 
family  secret  is  perhaps  in  this  envelope,  and  I 
shall  never  know  it  through  any  direct  confession, 
or  learn  it  by  any  witness. 

Making  my  way  through  the  darkness  torn  by 
sudden  flashes,  under  a  continuous  hail  of  steel 
and  earth,  and  occasionally  stumbling  over  the 
dead,  is  an  occupation  that  requires  every  atom 
of  my  attention.  Here  are  the  three  lines  of 
trenches.  My  eyes,  at  last  accustomed  to  the 
darkness,  can  just  make  out  the  long  lines  of 
earth.  Our  men  are  there,  packed  one  against 
another,  silent,  moveless.  No  knapsacks  are  car- 
ried— they  are  too  heavy  for  quick  movement — • 
but  round  his  body  each  man  carries  a  musette, 
provided  with  food  and  hand-grenades  which  give 
him  a  silhouette  like  a  lozenge.  From  time  to 
time  a  star-shell  goes  up  from  the  German  lines, 
showing  in  every  detail  the  picture  of  our  ex- 
pectant soldiers.  Some  of  them  fasten  their  eyes 
upon  the  intermittently  appearing  objective,  the 
filigree  ruins  standing  above  the  line  of  the  ho- 
rizon; but  for  the  most  part  the  men  seem  indif- 
ferent, concerned  only  in  finding  the  least  un- 


210  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

comfortable  resting  positions.  Leaning  against 
the  earth  embankments,  bent  down,  or  even  lying 
on  top  of  each  other,  they  doze  for  a  moment  or 
two.  An  occasional  word  is  spoken,  but  there  is 
no  conversation.  Everyone  does  his  own  think- 
ing, though  he  is  quite  willing  to  receive  physical 
support  from  his  comrade.  There  is  no  single 
isolated  being;  this  Battalion  is  one,  and  from  its 
oneness  each  individual  takes  his  courage  and 
his  strength. 

In  this  multifarious  assembly  I  catch  sight  of 
the  Chaplain  as  well  as  Captain  Champfeu,  im- 
patiently champing  his  bit.  He  is  standing  up- 
right on  the  parapet,  as  if  the  shells  falling  round 
us  were  not  intended  for  him.  Louis  de  Clermont- 
Tonnerre  is  looking  for  the  faces  of  comrades,  the 
men  who  love  him.  He  then  returns  to  his  post 
at  the  Colonel's  side. 

It  is  5.05;  Major  Giraud  rises  to  his  feet.  I 
am  surprised  when  I  look  at  my  watch:  it  can't 
be  so  late!  The  Major  looks  over  the  parapet. 
The  men  standing  beside  him  think  this  is  the 
signal,  and  a  telepathic  message  goes  along  the 
line.  "Not  yet,"  says  the  Major,  and  quietly  the 
men  resume  their  positions. 

What  was  he  looking  at?  The  day  is  long  in 
coming,  the  night  is  still  pitch  black,  and  a  fine 
drizzle  is  falling.  It  will  be  difficult  to  advance 
in  the  dark,  and  infinite  precautions  must  be  taken 


LA  MALMAISON  211 

to  keep  the  proper  formation,  but  the  march  will 
be  slow — that  has  been  arranged  for. 

5 :15.  This  time  the  hour  has  come.  Again  the 
tall  Major  rises  and  at  once  without  a  spoken 
word  everyone  is  ready.  And  then — going  over ! 
It's  not  what  one  imagines  it:  a  headlong  rush  to 
victory.  It  is  a  simple  and  quiet  affair.  Yon 
must  first  make  your  way  as  best  you  can  up  the 
little  steps  leading  to  the  parapet.  Many  soldiers 
mount  it  either  at  a  leap  or  by  hoisting  each  other 
up.  Then  you  rather  guess  than  see  a  thousand 
shadows,  regular  links  in  an  endless  chain,  swarm- 
ing over  and  forming  ranks  on  the  top.  There  is 
not  a  work  spoken,  as  amid  bursting  shells  the 
men  begin  their  orderly  march.  With  their  gro- 
tesque burdens  they  look  like  peasants  setting  out 
for  a  fair  before  daybreak.  Or  hardly  that :  theirs 
is  the  tranquillity  and  calculated  order  of  some 
sacred  ceremony.  There  is  no  hesitation  as  they 
fall  into  formation  the  moment  they  clear  the 
parapet.  Occasionally  a  man  is  hit — he  utters  a 
groan  and  falls.  A  matter  of  small  importance, 
provided  it  does  not  retard  the  advance  of  the 
whole  body. 

Slowly  objects  begin  to  emerge  from  the  sha- 
dows of  night,  which  has  concealed  the  perfect 
order  of  the  march,  its  method  and  carefully 
planned  maneuvering.  Now,  a  few  steps  away,  I 
catch  sight  of  the  long  line  and  the  close-packed 
columns.  The  star-shells  cast  their  reflections  on 


212  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

the  steel  helmets,  masses  of  which  suddenly  sink 
into  the  earth  and  as  suddenly  emerge:  men 
marching  through  shell-holes.  This  quiet,  per- 
sistent orderly  march  is  the  attack. 

The  rain  has  stopped,  but  will  the  sun  ever 
rise?  Why  the  devil  couldn't  we  have  had  clear 
weather !  Over  this  scarred  and  battered  terrain, 
full  of  shell-holes  and  pits,  the  Zouaves  advance 
just  behind  the  barrage,  with  the  regularity  of 
clock-work.  From  time  to  time  a  muffled  "go 
easy!"  from  the  officers  restrains  a  man  who  is 
in  too  great  a  hurry.  You  can't  go  ahead  of  your 
artillery. 

"We  send  up  no  star-shells.  The  advance  is  a 
little  retarded  by  the  darkness ;  men  stumble.  It 
is  almost  impossible  to  do  anything  under  the 
heavy  bombardment,  but  after  an  advance  of  two 
or  three  hundred  meters  the  rain  of  shells  is  not 
quite  so  heavy. 

We  gain  the  Casse-tete  trench,  already  de- 
stroyed by  our  fire ;  the  entire  first  line  is  now  no 
doubt  in  our  hands.  The  Leibnitz  is  also  almost 
totally  demolished;  there  again  we  find  little  op- 
position. But  the  enemy  has  placed  sharp-shoot- 
ers in  shell-holes  and  our  Zouaves  are  attacked 
from  the  rear.  But  we  continue  our  advance  with- 
out turning  round.  A  special  company  has  been 
detailed  to  clear  out  the  sharp-shooters'  nests. 

The  Germans  now  send  up  a  continuous  stream 
of  red  star-shells.  They  frantically  signal  their 


LA  MALMAISON  213 

own  artillery  to  shorten  range  in  order  to  pro- 
tect them  from  the  oncoming  assault.  Their 
luminous  signals  appear  and  disappear,  the  grace- 
ful arcs  meeting  and  crossing  in  the  air.  To  our 
right  we  see  green  signals.  Meantime  our  fire 
is  directed  upon  the  Fort — incendiary  shells  that 
burst  into  red  flames,  behind  which  the  ruined 
Fort  is  seen  looming  out  of  the  blackness.  The 
Fort  is  now  a  perfect  objective.  A  regiment  of 
Moroccan  Colonials,  marching  in  our  direction, 
supports  the  left,  while  the  Chasseurs  come  up  on 
the  right.  The  Zouaves,  holding  the  center,  push 
relentlessly  forward. 

The  mad  mingling  of  signals,  bursting  incen- 
diary shells,  and  the  first  rays  of  dawn  make  a 
soul-stirring  picture.  To  the  booming  of  artillery, 
the  tick-tack  of  sharp-shooters  and  the  cries  of 
the  wounded,  the  attacking  body  steadily  advances. 

At  the  Carabine  trench,  just  at  the  foot  of  the 
Fort,  there  is  determined  resistance.  This  is 
soon  overcome  and  the  attack  on  the  Fort  begins. 
The  men  are  so  near  that  they  are  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish the  component  parts  of  the  Fort:  La 
Malmaison  to  the  men  just  below  it,  is  merely  a 
blot  in  the  surrounding  darkness.  Isolated  in 
this  way,  it  is  easily  defended.  These  difficulties 
have  naturally  been  foreseen  and  the  battalion 
begins  maneuvering.  It  is  first  necessary  to  take 
the  ruined  outer  walls,  then  the  turrets,  then  the 
inner  walls.  The  Fort  itself  once  taken,  it  is  still 


314  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

necessary  to  descend  into  the  caves,  the  dun- 
geons, wherever  sharp-shooters  might  be  sta- 
tioned. 

The  two  companies  ahead,  followed  by  a  com- 
pany of  sharp-shooters,  having  surrounded  the 
Fort  to  the  east  and  west,  now  march  through 
the  breeches  made  by  our  heavy  guns.  The  first 
man  to  enter  the  breech  was  a  peasant  from  Poi- 
tou,  called  Barre.  He  was  a  married  Reservist, 
a  quiet  fellow,  who  never  sought  adventure,  one 
of  those  level-headed  men  who  was  quite  willing 
to  keep  in  line  during  the  advance. 

There  is  some  fighting  inside  the  Fort.  Six  or 
eight  German  sharp-shooters  have  been  stationed 
here  and  there,  and  threaten,  serious  trouble.  The 
rapidity  of  our  attack,  however,  has  taken  them 
unawares  and  they  are  soon  put  out  of  business. 

"Six  o'clock.  "At  six  I  will  be  master  of  the 
Fort"  was  what  the  Major  had  promised.  And 
at  six  he  was  master  of  the  Fort.  He  starts  to 
send  up  the  tri-color  star-shell  which  was  the 
signal  agreed  upon,  but  the  fuse  fails  to  work.  A 
Zouave  mounts  the  wall  end  plants  on  it  the  tri- 
color flag,  while  the  following  message  is  sig- 
naled: Objective  attained.  The  news  is  received 
at  Avricourt  and  sent  thence  by  telephone  and 
wireless  from  post  to  post,  to  the  division,  the 
Corps,  and  then  to  General  Headquarters.  Finally 
it  reaches  Paris  and  is  flashed  to  all  of  France. 

The  Division  airman,  at  six  o'clock  sharp,  flies 


LA  MALMAISON  215 

over  the  Fort  and  makes  his  observations  on  the 
new  post.  The  sun  rises  at  last  over  the  Fort 
with  its  little  flag  floating  in  the  breeze,  while 
the  airplane  describes  great  circles  overhead. 

In  the  distance  we  catch  sight  of  the  towers  of 
Laon  Cathedral. 

The  taking  of  La  Malmaison  was  only  one  epi- 
sode in  a  battle  that  was  fought  all  the  way  be- 
tween the  Moulin  de  Laffaux  and  La  Eoyne.  But 
it  was  an  indication  of  victory,  a  hard  and  bloody 
victory  won  by  the  right  wing,  including  the 
Zouaves,  the  Sharp-shooters  and  the  Chasseurs. 
Our  losses  were  heavy.  We  soon  had  particu- 
lars on  the  casualties  among  officers:  Villebois- 
Mareuil  was  killed  during  the  march ;  Marasquin, 
too,  though  I  thought  he  had  only  been  wounded; 
Champfeu  stationed  his  sharp-shooters  at  the 
Fort,  but  immediately  after  he  was  showered  by 
shells  and  fell  wounded  in  the  thigh  and  head.  I 
had  seen  him  as  they  carried  him  off.  He  raised 
himself  on  his  elbow  and  turned  to  me : 

"That  was  a  first-rate  attack,  wasn't  it?" 

The  other  battalions  were  to  go  beyond  the 
Fort  and  take  the  Many  farm,  a  key  position  for 
the  taking  of  the  village  of  Chavignon.  Every- 
thing was  well  with  the  Colonial  regiment  next 
to  us.  Things  were  not  so  well  with  the  Chasseurs 
at  our  right.  They  had  had  a  hard  time  of  it  at 
first  defending  the  Pantheon  and  Bovette  caverns, 
and  later  had  met  with  stout  resistance  at  the 


216  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

Bois  de  Veau.  In  the  6th  Regiment  Major  Frere 
had  been  wounded,  and  despite  his  tremendous 
energy  had  been  forced  to  pass  on  his  command 
to  Captain  Chalumeau.  Major  de  Bellegarde  of 
the  46th  was  killed  outright. 

Toward  four  in  the  afternoon  two  Chasseurs 
arrived  at  the  post.  Jean-Marie  was  one  of  them. 
They  delivered  by  word  of  mouth  the  orders  which 
the  General  had  not  dared  to  commit  to  writing, 
as  the  couriers  would  have  to  pass  through  a  zone 
that  was  still  disputed.  While  they  were  waiting 
to  rejoin  their  corps  I  talked  with  Jean-Marie. 

"You  see,  it  is  possible  to  avoid  accidents." 

"Yes,  Lieutenant." 

The  boy's  expression  was  hard,  and  his  features 
contracted. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  give  you  your  letter?" 

"It  isn't  worth  while." 

The  battle  was  not  yet  over.  I  did  not  dare 
question  the  boy  regarding  the  contents  of  the 
letter,  but  I  was  trying  to  draw  some  statement 
from  him.  I  imagined  that  it  might  be  some  con- 
solation to  him  if  he  were  to  confide  in  me.  I 
soon  learned,  however,  that  he  would  never  do 
so,  and  we  chatted  about  Bessans,  the  chalet, 
and  hunting. 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  hunting  with  me  after 
the  war." 

He  smiled,  wishing  to  make  himself  agreeable. 


LA  MALMAISON  217 

I  could  utter  nothing  but  commonplaces  in  the 
presence  of  this  man  who  wanted  to  die. 

After  a  moment  he  and  his  comrade  were  sum- 
moned to  receive  the  oral  instructions  they  were 
to  take  back.  The  two  men  then  made  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  Bois  de  Veau,  at  that  time  full 
of  sharp-shooters  and  ambuscades. 

The  dark  red  sun  dipped  down  to  the  horizon 
and  threw  into  ghastly  relief  all  the  irregularities 
of  the  ground.  I  could  not  help  praying  for  dark- 
ness to  envelop  and  protect  the  two  little  Chas- 
seurs. 

The  Chasseur  Battalion  had  tenaciously  re- 
newed their  attack  on  the  German  Imperial 
Guards.  On  the  25th  of  October  they  routed  the 
enemy,  took  Pargny-Filain  and  reached  the  Ail- 
ette.  I  asked  news  of  Private  Convert  of  the  6th 
Battalion :  he  was  " missing,"  not  having  returned 
to  La  Malmaison. 

His  body  was  found  in  the  Bois  de  Veau.  I 
was  present  when  he  was  identified.  His  breast 
and  abdomen  were  riddled  by  sharp-shooters  *  bul- 
lets; there  was  no  mark  on  his  face,  only  mud, 
and  his  eyes  were  wide  open.  I  could  not  close 
them. 

So  Jean-Marie  had  gone  on  a  longer  journey 
than  had  his  grandfather  or  his  elder  brother. 
Like  them  he  had  secretly,  silently,  done  his  part 
in  atoning  for  the  family  crime.  On  both  the  oc- 
casions when  I  had  met  him — in  the  cave  by  the 


218  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

Aisne  and  at  La  Malmaison — he  had  had  no  desire 
to  live;  he  had  determined  upon  sacrificing  his 
life.  Poor  boy  I  He  had  even  more  conrage  than 
his  superiors  and  comrades  imagined,  for  he  had 
faced  the  horror  of  crime  in  his  own  family.  It 
was  that  that  he  had  not  cared  to  survive. 

When  I  returned  to  Headquarters  General 
Maud'Huy  summoned  me  at  once. 

"Well,  Charlieu,  how  ahout  the  eyesf " 

"Eyes  of  faith,  General,  eyes  of  hope,  of  sor- 
row, and  of  love." 

"Sorrow!'* 

"That,  too,  General" 

The  General  had  the  heart  of  a  father,  and 
could  readily  understand.  He  did  not  question 
me  further,  and  left  me  to  my  own  thoughts. 

I  saw  once  again  the  unclosed  eyes  of  Jean- 
Marie;  eyes  of  sorrow,  yes,  but  of  love  as  well, 
of  the  greatest  love,  of  the  love  that  redeems. 


CHAPTER  XII 

BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA 

I  SENT  Jean-Marie's  will  to  Father  Etienne 
Convert,  Lazarist  at  Tien-tsin,  together  with 
every  detail  I  was  able  to  learn  not  only  of  the 
lad's  death  bnt  of  his  life  as  a  Chasseur;  some 
personal  reminiscences  of  his  officers  and  com- 
rades, and  his  military  citation.  I  was  nnable 
to  send  the  packet  until  nearly  a  month  after  the 
battle :  the  delay  was  dne  to  my  having  to  collect 
this  material  and  being  suddenly  ordered  to  Italy 
under  General  Maistre,  the  victor  of  La  Malmai- 
son  and  later  of  Monte-Tomba  He  was  being 
sent  to  help  the  Italians  along  the  Piave  after  the 
Austro-Gennan  offensive  at  Caporetto. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  I  received  an  answer 
from  China — six  months:  the  letter  arrived  in 
May,  1918.  At  that  time  Amiens  was  threatened, 
and  consequently  Paris.  Playing  her  last  card, 
Germany  was  attempting  to  bring  the  war  to  an 
abrupt  close. 

Father  Convert  expressed  his  thanks  in  the 
warmest  terms.  I  gathered  that  his  soul  was  at 
peace,  and  that  the  life  he  was  leading  was  no 

219 


220  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

more  than  a  righteous  endeavor  to  deserve  death, 
the  gate  to  immortality.  He  asked  me  to  do  him 
two  favors:  to  visit  his  mother,  telling  her  par- 
ticulars of  "the  little  one's"  death,  and  to  see 
Jean-Pierre. 

I  hadn't  the  courage  to  write  direct  to  Madda- 
lena.  Etienne  's  asking  me  to  see  her  proved  that 
he  thought  me  ignorant  of  her  complicity.  I  was 
perhaps  mistaken  after  all  in  my  interpretation  of 
his  attitude.  I  had  at  any  rate  assumed  that  we 
both  shared  the  same  secret. 

But  I  was  not  long  troubled  with  these  doubts : 
I  would  take  up  the  Convert  business  later,  when 
circumstances  permitted.  Meantime  I  had  other 
obligations  to  fulfil. 

As  I  knew  I  should  not  be  able  to  go  to  Savoy 
for  some  time  I  decided  to  write  Maddalena  giving 
her  such  details  as  she  might  wish  to  know.  It 
was  only  right  that  I  should  do  this,  for  has  not 
the  war  taught  us  the  lesson  of  compassion?  I 
had  seen  too  much  suffering  not  to  wish  to  re- 
lieve it.  The  poor  woman  had  no  children  now: 
the  two  elder  had  left  her,  and  the  last  had  re- 
turned to  the  earth.  Was  she  not  sufficiently 
punished! 

The  letter  I  sent  was  returned  unopened,  and 
on  it  was  stamped  the  single  word  "Deceased." 
I  could  not  help  wondering  why  her  husband  had 
not  opened  it,  then  I  put  the  matter  out  of  my 
mind  entirely.  Henceforward  no  link  bound  me 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA 

to  the  Convert  family.  The  murderer  was  at  last 
alone,  master  of  the  house.  I  should  take  good 
care  not  to  meet  him  again. 

The  Armistice.  When  the  end  came  I  was  at 
Mayence,  but  was  not  demobilized  until  February, 
when  I  resumed  my  professional  duties  after  a 
lapse  of  five  and  a  half  years. 

Ask  any  ex-soldier  how  he  felt  when  he  returned 
to  civil  life  and  you  will  learn  that  he  felt  ill  at 
ease  and  couldn't  concentrate.  We  have  been 
blamed  for  causing  a  "wave  of  laziness."  Of 
course  the  criticism  came  from  those  who  had  not 
served.  True,  we  lacked  decision  and  initiative: 
but  the  struggle  had  been  so  violent  and  so  long  1 

My  friend  Louis  de  Vimines  had  given  me  scant 
news  of  himself  during  the  war,  sending  me  only 
an  occasional  card  from  a  rest  camp ;  but  when  the 
time  came  for  my  vacation  he  sent  me  a  cordial 
invitation  to  join  him  at  Lake  Lovitel.  There  were 
plenty  of  chamois  on  the  slopes  of  Lake  Murail- 
lette,  Le  Peyron,  and  Le  Signal,  and  among  the 
rocks  of  Malhaubert.  The  herds  had  increased 
to  an  enormous  extent,  as  all  the  poachers  had 
been  in  the  army.  A  herd  of  fifty  had  been  re- 
cently sighted. 

I  should  immediately  examine  my  weapons  and 
outfit  and  set  out  to  join  my  friend.  The  war,  it 
seemed  to  me,  had  been  merely  an  interlude  be- 
tween two  hunting  seasons. 

I  accepted  the  invitation  with  alacrity:  it  had 


222  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

succeeded  in  arousing  me  from  my  torpor.  I  felt 
as  I  had  used  to  feel.  I  already  enjoyed  the  sen- 
sation of  pure  mountain  air  in  my  lungs.  I  had 
had  enough  of  "Hill  304"  or  "Hill  344,"  I  was 
now  going  off  to  ramble  at  will  over  icy  slopes  and 
rocky  precipices  at  3,000  meters*  altitude,  alone 
with  my  gun  and  my  thoughts  and  my  game — 
when  the  game  thought  fit  to  come  my  way !  Mem- 
ories of  earlier  hunting  days  returned  to  me — 
of  the  days  I  used  to  go  up  into  the  Maurienne. 
I  could  not  help  thinking  of  it,  and  I  was  seized 
by  an  irresistible  desire  to  see  the  place  once 
again. 

Claude's  murder  seemed  like  a  recent  event. 
Once  more  I  rapidly  considered  the  proofs  or 
rather  the  circumstantial  evidence.  That  was  so 
clear,  so  overwhelming,  as  to  strengthen  my  cer- 
tainty of  Benoit's  guilt,  and  Maddalena's.  Of  all 
this  circumstantial  evidence  one  fact  alone  stood 
out:  Benoit's  wet  clothes.  The  rest  was  merely 
hypothetical,  circumstantial,  and  yet  taking  every- 
thing into  account  it  would  be  sufficient  to  secure  a 
legal  conviction. 

Legal  conviction?  "Was  I  still  thinking  of  that? 
Crimes  are  outlawed  after  ten  years.  Let  me  see : 
Claude  was  murdered  on  September  12 — ten  years 
ago  this  summer.  Some  few  days  remained  before 
the  expiration  of  the  period.  And  now  I  began 
to  be  troubled  with  the  same  old  ethical  problem. 
Was  it  not  my  duty  to  bring  an  accusation  before 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA 

September  12?  My  time  was  limited.  Etienne  had 
remained  silent  out  of  regard  for  his  mother,  and 
so  had  Jean-Marie.  Would  they,  I  wondered, 
have  spared  Benoit  after  she  had  gone!  Would 
they  have  allowed  the  murderer  to  inherit  the 
property?  Would  I  not  be  carrying  out  their 
wishes  in  bringing  Benoit  to  the  bar  of  justice? 

On  the  other  hand,  would  they  not  tell  me, 
"Respect  the  memory  of  our  Mama:  that  is 
sacred?  What  right  have  you,  who  have  sur- 
prised our  secret,  to  do  what  we  thought  it  our 
duty  to  refrain  from  doing?  Say  nothing,  as 
we  have  done.  Do  not  destroy  the  work  we  have 
begun.  We  have  expiated  the  crime/'  To  this 
imperious  mandate  would  be  added  the  voice  of 
Jean-Pierre,  more  imperious  than  the  others,  of 
the  old  man  who  had  spared  his  son. 

Nevertheless  I  was  tempted  to  go  to  Bessans, 
if  only  to  enter  the  Convert  house,  look  into  the 
eyes  of  Benoit  and  accuse  him  point-blank.  But 
I  must  be  certain;  I  could  not  do  it  if  there  re- 
mained the  least  doubt  in  my  mind.  But  I  had 
no  doubt  now.  No,  I  wanted  to  take  revenge.  I, 
too,  had  spared  Benoit  out  of  regard  for  the 
others,  I  had  taken  in  mine  the  hand  I  had  seen 
strangle  the  life  out  of  an  animal — the  animal 
that  had  taken  its  revenge  by  revealing  the  crimi- 
nal. I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  show  him  he 
had  not  deceived  me.  Once  I  had  him  at  my 
mercy  I  might  allow  the  necessary  time  to  elapse. 


224  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

So  before  going  to  Lake  Lovitel  I  went  to  Bes- 
sans.  In  order  to  face  Benoit,  who  might  offer 
some  resistance,  I  had  taken  precautions:  he 
would  doubtless  stop  at  nothing  if  he  found  him- 
self cornered.  Those  hands  of  his  could  kill  with- 
out shedding  blood.  I  carried  a  very  small  re- 
volver in  my  pocket;  I  might  need  it  if  only  to 
keep  my  man  at  a  distance  until  I  had  finished 
talking.  Then  I  went  over  beforehand  the  exact 
words  I  intended  to  say :  my  accusation  would  be 
mercilessly  direct.  I  would  even  say  that  the 
police  were  coming  for  him  immediately,  and  then 
read  confession  on  his  face.  I  had  become  used 
to  making  war  on  nameless  enemies,  but  this  time 
my  enemy  was  to  be  a  man  known  to  me  and  to 
me  alone.  I  thought  of  Jean-Marie's  eyes,  wide 
open  in  death — those  eyes  knew,  they  had  under- 
stood. They  prompted  me  to  carry  out  my  mis- 
sion of  justice.  Even  were  I  not  to  turn  Benoit 
over  to  the  police,  I  should  at  least  enjoy  the 
satisfaction  of  causing  him  shame,  remorse,  and 
fear. 

I  crossed  the  Haute-Maurienne  by  carriage.  It 
was  a  beautiful  day  toward  the  end  of  August, 
but  even  the  loveliest  days  are  tinged  with  melan- 
choly, for  they  are  short  in  these  narrow  valleys 
of  the  Maurienne.  The  mountains  are  covered 
with  pines  and  larches  whose  sadness  is  more 
striking  in  summer  even  than  in  autumn.  After 
crossing  the  wild  heights  of  La  Madeleine  my 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA  325 

heart  warmed  as  I  saw  the  valley  widen  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  church  steeple  at  Bessans, 
for  here  I  had  enjoyed  happiness  and  freedom, 
and  physical  well-being  and  a  close  contact  with 
nature.  My  soul  expanded  at  the  sight  and  I 
smiled.  How  could  I  think  of  vengeance  in  this 
paradise  of  crystal  air  and  radiance  T 

I  left  my  bags  at  the  inn  near  the  entrance  to 
the  old  town,  and  walked  up  to  the  church.  I 
climbed  quickly  as  if  I  expected,  to  meet  old 
friends,  as  I  had  used  to  do  on  previous  visits. 
Two  hens,  hunting  for  grain,  gravely  preceded 
me.  I  saw  no  one :  everybody  must  have  been  in 
the  fields  or  up  in  the  mountain  pastures.  Not 
long  after,  I  passed  one  old  woman  who  recog- 
nized me.  "How  do  you  do,  Monsieur  Charlieu, 
so  you're  back?"  It  was  pleasant  to  be  remem- 
bered. I  stopped  and  spoke  a  few  words  about 
the  Bessans  boys  who  had  fallen — there  were  over 
forty  of  them.  I  did  not  ask  about  Benoit. 

Then  I  made  my  way  back  and  stood  outside 
the  court  of  Benoit 's  house.  I  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment and  drew  a  long  breath ;  I  would  have  need 
of  it. 

The  outer  courtyard,  which  you  enter  through 
an  open  arcade,  was  deserted.  A  small  hand-cart 
stood  just  under  the  eaves  beside  a  pile  of  wood. 
The  ground  had  not  been  swept  for  a  long  time, 
and  was  covered  with  wisps  of  decaying  straw.  In 
spite  of  the  heat  the  house  door  was  closed,  and 


326  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

the  windows  as  well.  I  did  not  see  how  the  in- 
mates could  breathe.  Of  course  I  knew  that  peas- 
ants, for  the  most  part  surfeited  with  fresh  air, 
are  apt  to  keep  their  doors  and  windows  tight 
shut.  But  there  was  something  hostile  and  om- 
inous in  the  deathly  silence  of  the  place.  It  had 
not  been  like  this  in  the  old  days.  It  now  looked 
like  a  dismantled  fortress. 

I  felt  my  pocket  to  be  sure  that  the  revolver 
was  there,  and  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  just 
as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  No  answer. 

I  knocked  again — still  no  answer. 

And  once  again,  with  my  cane. 

A  woman  from  one  of  the  neighboring  houses, 
hearing  the  noise,  appeared  at  the  outer  door. 

I  inquired  for  Benoit. 

"Gone,"  she  answered,  determined,  I  could  see, 
to  say  no  more. 

The  woman  was  too  young  to  have  known  me 
when  I  was  last  there.  Formerly  everyone  knew 
and  recognized  me. 

"Where  tot" 

"I  don't  know." 

If  she  didn't  know,  he  had  probably  not  gone 
far,  and  would  return  before  long. 

"Has  he  gone  up  with  his  cows  in  the  Averole 
Valley!" 

"No." 

"Is  he  coming  back!" 

"I  don't  think  so." 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA  JW7 

"Very  well.    Thank  yon." 

I  stood  there  before  the  closed  door,  disap- 
pointed and  uncertain.  I  had  counted  on  Benoit's 
being  at  home ;  it  was  really  inconsiderate  of  him 
to  deceive  me  I  It  seemed  as  though  he  had  known 
of  my  coming.  I  could  get  nothing  out  of  the 
peasant  girl,  she  would  not  talk  and  that  was  all 
there  was  to  it.  It  then  occurred  to  me  to  pay  a 
visit  to-  Serafin  Ruffin.  He  had  always  been  a 
merry  fellow,  a  heavy  drinker  and  eater,  honest 
and  upright  and  faithful.  Though  he  was  a 
widower  he  had  brought  up  eleven  children,  one 
of  whom,  it  will  be  remenibered,  was  the  pretty 
Melanie. 

Ruffin/s  house  was,  fortunately,  inhabited,  and 
I  was.  given  a  warm  welcome.  They  insisted  that  I 
sit  down-  and  make  myself  at  home  in  their  spot- 
less stable.  Without  a  second's  delay  Melanie 
and  a  young  sister  laid  a  cloth  on  the  table,  a  plate 
and  two  glasses,  a  knife,  some  cheese  and  wine, 
while  Serafin  filled  the  glasses  and  offered  to 
drink  with  me.  The  entire  family  observed  the 
ceremonials  of  peasant  hospitality,  the  women 
standing  up  and  the  men  seated. 

"Well,  S&rafin,  old  man,  we've  both  grown 
older." 

"Can't  help  that." 

To  myself  I  said — everyone  does — "especially 
you!"  He  had  more  of  a  stoop  than  ever  before 
and  the  color  of  his  nose  proclaimed  the  intemper- 


228  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

ance  of  his  habits,  though  these  were,  to  do  him 
justice,  regular.  The  years  had  given  a  severity 
to  his  face;  and  he  was  not  so  good-natured  as 
he  used  to  be.  I  soon  learned  the  reason  for  this 
change:  one  of  his  sons  had  been  killed  and  an- 
other had  returned  with  only  one  leg. 

"And  you,  Melanie,  are  you  married  yet?" 

She  too,  had  changed  for  the  worse.  She  had 
lost  her  color,  and  looked  thinner,  and  was  care- 
less about  her  appearance.  I  know  that  peasant 
women  age  very  rapidly;  no  wonder,  when  you 
think  of  the  hard  physical  labor  they  must  do,  but 
Melanie  was  still  very  young.  When  I  last  knew 
her  she  wasn't  a  day  over  eighteen.  A  girl 
oughtn't  to  lose  her  beauty  at  twenty-five  or  six. 
She  blushed  at  my  question: 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur  PAvocat!" 

"Well,  it's  your  own  fault  then.  You  used  to 
wear  such  pretty  ribbons.  Where  are  they?  And 
you  used  to  sing  Noels;  I'll  wager  you  don't  any 
longer." 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 

And  she  looked  at  me  in  astonishment,  with 
those  large  eyes  that  were  still  bright  and  beauti- 
ful in  her  faded  face.  How,  they  seemed  to 
ask  reproachfully,  could  I  speak  so  lightly  of 
the  past?  The  last  time  I  had  seen  Melanie 
was  at  her  betrothal  ceremony.  It  was  at 
the  feast  afterward  that  she  had  sung  the 
Noel.  Had  I  forgotten?  After  all,  she  was 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA  829 

only  a  child  then,  and  I  had  imagined  she 
had  long  since  picked  up  the  thread  of  her 
life.  There  was  surely  no  lack  of  suitors  for  a 
pretty  girl  like  her.  But  I  was  quite  mistaken: 
she  had  remained  faithful  to  her  Etienne.  I  had 
only  to  read  the  purity  and  sorrow  of  her  eyes  to 
discover  inr  them  the  image  of  fidelity. 

"That's  her  way,"  said  her  father.  He  was 
simply  giving  in  to  the  inevitable.  More  than 
once  he  had  vainly  tried  to  break  down  the  girl's 
resistance. 

And  I  had  shamelessly,  thoughtlessly  re-opened 
an  old  wound.  This  first  contact  with  the  past 
taught  me  to  be  careful  at  my  next  attempt.  In 
spite  of  my  desire  to  speak  of  the  Converts  I 
postponed  all  reference  to  them,  waiting  for  the 
subject  to  arise  naturally.  We  spoke  of  the  har- 
vest and  of  hunting. 

1  *  There 's  plenty  of  chamois  on  the  Albaron  and 
the  Charbonel — but  you  don't  come  here  any 
longer. ' ' 

''I'm  going  hunting  in  the  Dauphine." 

"You  don't  like  Bessans  any  more?" 

I  vigorously  protested,  and  then  asked  for 
news  of  my  old  -beaters.  It  was  in  this  way  that  I 
came  to  the  fatal  question. 

"What  about  Benoit  Convert?" 

"He's  gone." 

"Where?" 

"I  don't  know." 


230  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"Is  he  coming  back  soon?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"This  evening,  at  any  rate!" 

*  'I'd  be  migbty  surprised  if  he  came  back  this 
evening. " 

"Then  he's  gone  fart" 

"No  one  knows  where  he's  gone." 

Almost  identically  the  same  answers  I  had  re- 
ceived from  the  peasant  girl.  There  was  a  mys- 
tery here,  and  no  one  was  willing  to  speak  of  it. 
Had  Benoit's  guilt  been  discovered  and  had  he 
escaped?  I  thought  so  at  first. 

"Why  did  he  go?" 

"Because  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  go." 

So  he  had  gone  of  his  own  free  will,  and  not 
run  away  like  a  criminal.  Serafin  was  clearly  try- 
ing to  evade  my  questions.  Like  most  peasants, 
he  said  no  more  than  he  wanted  to  say.  I  let 
the  matter  drop,  intending  to  learn  other  facts  as 
they  might  develop  casually.  But  I  must  know 
at  all  costs  when  Benoit  would  return.  I  had  no 
intention  of  letting  him  escape;  my  old  hunter's 
instincts  were  now  fully  aroused.  Never  had  I 
so  wanted  to  have  him  in  my  power,  even  if  it 
were  only  to  let  him  go  the  next  minute.  I  felt 
that  in  this  way  I  should  be  carrying  out  the 
wishes  of  Jean-Pierre,  Etienne,  and  Jean-Marie. 

"So  Maddalena  is  dead.  She  wasn't  old,  was 
she  T  I  wrote  her  about  Jean-Marie,  but  my  letter 
waa  returned.  How  long  ago  did  it  happen?" 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA  831 

"Nearly  two  years." 

"Two  years!  Was  it  her  sorrow  that  killed 
her?" 

"Well,  she  didn't  have  any  disease." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  possibly  she  had  inflicted 
punishment  upon  herself.  Had  she,  after  the  loss 
of  her  youngest,  recognized  in  this  fatality  the 
finger  of  God?  I  remembered  how  superstitious 
she  had  been. 

"So  it  wasn't  suicide?"  I  asked  with  a  smile 
intended  to  mitigate  the  brutality  of  the  question. 

"I  don't  think  so." 

I  don't  think  so!  I  was  beginning  to  resent 
this  persistent  refusal  to  give  me  a  definite 
answer. 

"See  here,  Serafin,  you're  not  a  damn  bit  of 
good.  You  know  I'm  interested  in  all  the  Cou- 
verts.  You  don't  give  me  any  news.  Claude  was 
my  first  and  best  beater.  When  his  body  was 
fished  out  of  the  Arc  I  felt  as  though  I'd  lost  one 
of  my  family.  By  the  way,  has  the  murderer 
been  found?" 

"No,  Monsieur  PAvocat,"  and  he  added  be- 
tween his  teeth,  "and  what's  more,  I  don't  think 
they've  looked  for  him!" 

"You've  got  something  on  your  mind,  SeVafin?" 

"Who,  me?  Oh,  no!  What  do  you  mean?"  he 
answered  evasively. 

"You  know  everyone  in  the  Valley:  you  must 
suspect  someone." 


232  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"It  was  all  so  long  ago.  You  know,  Monsieur 
1'Avocat,  it's  the  same  with  murderers  as  with 
chamois :  at  first  the  blood  is  hot  and  wet  on  your 
hands  and  you're  excited,  but  it  dries  mighty 
quick. ' ' 

He  would  not  tell  me  what  he  thought,  and  I 
returned  to  the  subject  of  Maddalena.  I  tried 
the  indirect  method : 

"As  you  know,  I  had  Etienne  with  me  after 
Claude's  death,  but  God  took  him.  You're  not 
jealous,  Melanie  ?" 

"I'm  not  jealous,  Monsieur.  Etienne  did  what 
was  right!" 

How  quickly  she  sprang  to  his  defence  and  how 
her  eyes  flashed !  A  chicken  that  had  jumped  up 
on  the  table  and  was  picking  the  crumbs  from 
my  plate  gave  the  girl  a  chance  to  hide  her  em- 
barrassment. She  chased  away  the  intrusive 
bird,  and  amid  a  flapping  of  wings  and  flying  of 
feathers,  I  attempted  to  resume: 

"So  he's  in  China  now.  I've  heard  no  news 
of  him  since  his  brother's  death." 

Serafin  explained  that  Melanie  corresponded 
regularly  with  Eina,  who  occasionally  sent  news 
of  Etienne. 

"Melanie  wanted  to  join  them.  She  may — 
when  I'm  dead,  if  she  wants  to:  or  when  her 
younger  sister  grows  up." 

Melanie  bowed  her  head  as  if  she  dared  not 
look  me  in  the  face.  In  these  few  words  I  had 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA  333 

read  the  whole  drama  of  her  love.  She  had  noth- 
ing more  to  conceal  from  me:  she  was  one  of 
those  women  who  love  only  once  and  for  always. 
But  her  emotions  had  become  spiritualized  and 
she  was  now  ready  to  give  herself  to  humanity 
for  the  sake  of  one  man.  I  recognized  in  her  the 
mystic  ardor  of  the  Maurienne  race,  preserved 
intact  in  her  pure  spirit  and  virgin  body.  In- 
stinctively I  dropped  my  familiar  manner:  there 
was  something  sacred  about  her.  She,  too, 
through  her  love,  was  expiating  the  crime. 

"Forgive  me,  Melanie,  for  hurting  your  feel- 
ings. I  have  just  begun  to  understand  you." 

She  was  surprised  at  my  words  and  made  a  lit- 
tle gesture  of  protest  meaning  that  a  humble  girl 
like  herself  had  nothing  to  forgive.  She  seemed 
to  want  to  re-establish  the  social  barrier  between 
us.  But  she  said  no  more.  The  vocation  which 
would  ultimately  take  her  away  had  already  be- 
gun to  affect  her:  she  seemed  to  have  stepped 
back  out  of  the  world  of  reality  and  to  be  en- 
veloped in  the  veil  that  she  would  one  day  wear. 

Once  again  I  continued  the  litany  of  the  Con- 
vert family: 

1 '  Then  there  was  little  Jean-Marie.  A  nice  boy. 
He  seemed  so  gay." 

"Oh,  he  was  that,"  affirmed  Serafin. 

"The  picture  of  his  father." 

"You're  dead  right,  Monsieur  1'Avocat." 

"You  know,  I  met  him  during  the  war.  Ihadnt 


334  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

seen  him  since  he  was  a  youngster.  He  was  killed 
at  La  Malmaison — while  he  was  on  a  dangerous 
mission.  He'd  asked  to  be  sent." 

"D'ye  mean  he  wcunted  to  go?" 

"Why,  yes,  Serafin." 

"Good  Lord,  you  don't  ask  for  things  like  that. 
Of  course,  if  they  send  you,  it's  all  rights." 

"But  you  know,  Serafin,  there  are  some  who  al- 
ways ask.  Jean-Marie  was  one  of  those." 

"Maybe  he  had  his  reasons." 

This  reflection  was  no  doubt  one  of  those  peas- 
ant correctives  which  take  the  wind,  as  it  were, 
out  of  noble  sentiments  and  grandiose  phrases 
and  bring  one  suddenly  down  to  earth.  I  felt 
that  Serafin  knew  something  about  this  and  was 
sure  that  the  boy's  secret  was  known  in  the  vil- 
lage. I  therefore  followed  up  my  advantage : 

"Tell  me,  Serafin,  do  you  remember  Jean- 
Marie's  last  leave  T  When  he  came  back  to  his 
battalion  they  hardly  recognized  him:  his  old 
gaiety  was  all  gone.  Were  there  any  discussions 
about  the  property,  any  question  about  Etienne's 
and  Rina's  last  wishes!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,  Monsieur  1'Avo- 
cat.  Benoit  and  his  wife  didn't  get  along  very 
well  together.  We  didn't  see  much  of  them,  but 
the  neighbors  used  to  hear  them  screaming  at 
each  other;  sometimes  at  night,  too.  Well,  the 
young  soldier  turned  up  one  night  when  they 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA  835 

weren't  expecting  him.  Maybe  he  came  in  when 
they  were  fighting.  That  may  be." 

"But  Maddalena  loved  Jean-Marie,"  added 
Melanie  from  her  corner. 

"Yes,"  I  repeated,  "she  did.  How  did  she 
hear  of  his  death?" 

"It  was  this  way,"  said  my  host.  "She  was 
alone  in  the  house.  Benoit  was  up  on  the  moun- 
tain getting  wood.  The  Mayor  called  on  her  him- 
self. She  made  a  terrible  hullabaloo  when  she 
heard.  That's  the  way  they  do  in  her  country, 
you  know ;  here  we  keep  our  feelings  to  ourselves. 
Then  she  ran  out  of  the  house  like  she  was  crazy. 
They  thought  she'd  gone  to  the  church  or  the 
cemetery,  but  they  saw  her  taking  the  Averole 
Road,  maybe  to  fetch  her  husband.  But  when 
Benoit  came  home  that  night  she  wasn't  with  him, 
and  he  hadn't  seen  her,  so  they  went  out  with 
lanterns  to  look  for  her.  Maybe  she  was  spending 
the  night  at  Averole  Village?  Well,  the  next  day 
they  went  in  that  direction.  Some  children  had 
seen  her — she'd  passed  Plan-du-pre.  That's 
where  the  mule-path  ends,  but  the  trail  was  cov- 
ered even  there  by  the  snow  that  had  fallen  the 
night  before.  They  managed  to  follow  her  foot- 
prints in  the  snow.  A  caravan  had  crossed  by  the 
path  that  leads  over  the  Arnes  Pass,  and  another 
up  to  the  Oratory  of  Notre-Dame-des-Neiges. 
That's  where  they  found  her,  half -buried  in  the 
snow.  She'd  been  caught  there  during  the  night, 


2S6  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

and  frozen  to  death.  She  was  lying  just  under  the 
Oratory.  She  didn't  suffer  much  probably.  You 
soon  lose  your  senses  when  you're  being  frozen." 

"Poor  woman!  She  used  to  give  in  to  the  call 
of  pious  pilgrimages.  So  that  was  her  last!" 

As  Serafin  was  in  a  confiding  mood  I  went  on : 

"AndBenoitt" 

* '  Benoit  helped  bring  her  back.  He  never  talks. 
He  spent  the  whole  winter  after  her  death  mind- 
ing his  own  business  and  not  saying  a  word  to 
anyone.  In  the  spring  he  took  his  cattle  to  the 
fair  at  Bourg-Saint-Maurice — you  know,  in  the 
Tarentaise.  He  got  a  good  price  for  them,  so 
they  say.  I  don't  know;  I  wasn't  there.  After 
that,  he  sold  all  the  land,  farms  and  everything. 
Everything  but  the  house." 

1  'But  that  property  didn't  belong  to  him,  Sera- 
fin!" 

"Oh,  yes,  Monsieur  1'Avocat.  Yes,  it  did. 
Everything  came  to  him  by  inheritance." 

"Do  you  mean  that  Jean-Marie  left  his  prop- 
erty to  Benoit  t" 

"No;  I  mean  the  others  gave  up  their  rights — 
old  Jean-Pierre,  Etienne,  and  Bina.  So  you  see, 
everything  came  to  him." 

"Well,  you  Bessans  people  have  so  many  law- 
suits that  you  know  the  code  better  than  we  law- 
yers. What  has  he  done  with  his  money?" 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  that.  One  morning  he  ups 
and  goes.  That  was  a  year  ago  next  Saint-Jean. 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA  237 

He  followed  the  same  road  as  his  wife,  only  he 
didn't  stop  at  the  Oratory.  He  must've  crossed 
over  into  Italy." 

''Did  he  take  his  money  with  him?" 

"Maybe  he  did  and  maybe  he  didn't.  Monsieur 
le  Cure  says  he  left  it  all  to  charity — for  the  poor 
people  of  the  parish.  You  can  believe  that  or  not 
as  you  like.  Cures  have  a  way  of  telling  just 
what  they  want  to  tell. ' ' 

"It's  the  truth,"  solemnly  added  Melanie. 

Her  father  did  not  contradict.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  wished  to  mitigate  the  cruelty  of  his 
sceptical  comment. 

"And  what's  to  become  of  the  house,  Serafin?" 

"Oh,  it'll  stay  where  it  is." 

"So  I  should  imagine,  but  who's  going  to  buy 
or  rent  it?" 

"No  one." 

"How  do  you  mean?  It's  a  fine  well-built  house, 
isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  built  to  last." 

"And  you  mean  no  one  wants  to  live  in  it?" 

"You  can  walk  right  in  if  you  like:  the  key's 
hanging  on  the  door." 

"Why,  Serafin,  what  about  the  furniture?" 

"The  furniture's  all  there." 

"Won't  it  be  stolen?" 

"No,  Monsieur  1'Avocat,  no  one  will  steal  that." 

"Extraordinary!  You  can't  abandon  a  house 
like  that!" 


238  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

"Oh,  yes,  yon  can,  Monsieur  1'Avocat,  becanse 
this  one  is  abandoned." 

"Why,  this  is  absurd.  People  die,  but  not 
houses.  Other  people  take  the  place  of  those  who 
are  dead.  The  Converts  are  gone,  someone  else 
will  take  their  place." 

"No,  no  one.    Houses  die,  too." 

"Naturally,  they  fall  to  pieces  when  they  aren't 
lived  in,  but  that's  not  quite  the  same  thing." 

Serafin  saw  no  reason  to  prolong  the  discussion. 
But  I  had  learned  what  I  wanted  to  know,  which 
was  much  more  than  I  had  imagined.  At  that,  it 
was  hard  enough  to  get  out  of  him  the  story  of 
the  outcome  of  the  tragedy.  I  wondered  how 
much  of  it  he  suspected,  and  asked  myself  whether 
the  whole  village  as  well  had  not  learned  the  se- 
cret T  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  Serafin  did,  judg- 
ing by  our  conversation.  Certainly  his  remark 
on  the  lack  of  any  effort  to  discover  the  criminal, 
his  hint  as  to  Jean-Marie's  "reasons,"  the  refusal 
of  the  parish  to  associate  with  the  Convert  ghosts 
— surely  these  were  sufficient  proof.  And  the  vil- 
lage knew,  in  all  probability,  though  no  one  would 
admit  it.  In  spite  of  anything  that  might  be  said 
about  the  murder  and  the  disappearance  of 
Benoit,  no  direct  accusation  would  ever  be  made. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  subject  would  be  avoided 
and  ere  long  the  members  of  the  family — the 
living  with  the  dead — would  vanish  tinder  the 
gathering  shadows  of  the  years. 


BENOIT  AND  MADDALENA  239 

Just  before  taking  leave  I  looked  Melanie 
straight  in  the  eyes.  Had  Etienne  by  chance  con- 
fided to  her  his  tragic  secret  before  breaking  the 
engagement?  Or  had  he  simply  asked  her  to 
trust  him  implicitly,  leaving  their  next  meeting 
in  the  hands  of  God,  the  beginning  and  end  of  all 
immortal  love?  I  was  never  to  know,  though  I 
went  away  assured  that  she  would  perform  her 
daily  round  of  duties,  with  a  peaceful  mind  and 
happy  conscience  until  the  day  she  would  be  sum- 
moned to  meet  her  Etienne. 


\ 


CHAPTEB  *TTT 

THE  HEARTH  WITHOUT  A  FTEE 

LEAVING  Serafin's  house  I  went  up  to  the  church 
again.  From  every  home  in  the  village  rose  a  deli- 
cate thread  of  blue  smoke,  for  it  was  the  dinner 
hour,  and  women  were  preparing  food  for  the 
men  returning  from  work.  Nature,  at  rest,  spread 
a  soft  tranquillity  over  the  narrow  valley. 

A  home  is  not  a  home  without  its  cockade  of 
smoke.  Children  realize  this  and  never  draw  a 
picture  of  a  house  without  it.  Have  you  ever 
seen  one  of  their  primitive  attempts  without  those 
rings  and  curlicues  intended  to  represent  smoke  ? 
They  never  forget  them. 

But  no  smoke  rose  from  the  Convert  house. 

I  then  descended  and  called  at  the  Presbytery, 
where  I  was  received  by  the  Cure.  He  had  seen 
service  and  been  wounded,  and  was  now  glad  to 
be  home  once  again.  I  asked  him  about  Benoit, 
but  like  the  others,  he  was  reticent. 

"You  know,  I  came  here  only  a  few  months 
before  he  left.  I  had  been  demobilized  because 
of  my  wounds.  My  predecessor  knew  a  great  deal 
about  Etienne,  the  missionary.  I  never  knew 
Benoit." 

240 


THE  HEARTH  WITHOUT  A  FIRE      241 

"I  am  told  lie  spoke  to  no  one  at  all?" 

"He  was  naturally  a  silent  man." 

"I  am  also  told  that  before  he  left  he  gave  you 
the  money  he  had  received  from  the  sale  of  his 
land  and  cattle,  asking  you  to  distribute  it  among 
the  poor?" 

"True,  Monsieur  PAvocat.  He  would  keep 
nothing  back  for  himself.  I  made  a  statement  of 
the  fact  from  the  pulpit." 

I  pretended  to  approve  of  Benoit's  act  and  to 
agree  with  the  priest,  and  added  nonchalantly : 

"He  was  a  good  example  to  the  parish." 

Did  he  think  I  knew  nothing  of  the  whole  affair? 
Was  he  himself  ignorant — or  just  doubtful?  Was 
he  perhaps  anxious  to  shield  the  criminal?  He 
went  on: 

"Not  from  a  religious  point  of  view.  He  never 
came  to  church.  He  never  came  in  to  kneel." 

"Never  came  in  to  kneel."  The  sentence  was 
illuminating.  It  accurately  characterized  Benoit 
who  had  persistently  faced  the  tempest  and  pre- 
ferred to  drop  from  sight  altogether  rather  than 
admit  his  guilt  before  the  sole  Tribunal  that  never 
refuses  forgiveness. 

I  took  leave  of  the  hospitable  Cure,  planning  to 
enter  for  the  last  time  the  mysterious  house.  I 
had  come  as  a  minister  of  justice,  but  now  I  felt 
only  compassion. 

I  was  reminded  of  a  passage  in  La  Cite  'Antique, 
a  book  for  which  one  of  my  law  professors  had 


242  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

given  me  the  greatest  affection.  The  passage  is 
that  in  which  the  author  speaks  of  Hearth  Wor- 
ship Among  the  Ancients.  "Every  Greek  and 
Eoman  house/'  he  says,  and  I  think  I  quote  cor- 
rectly, "had  an  altar,  and  on  that  altar  there  al- 
ways burned  a  fire.  It  was  the  sacred  duty  of  the 
head  of  the  house  to  keep  the  fire  burning  day 
and  night.  Every  night  the  coals  were  banked 
with  ashes  and  every  morning  the  flame  was  re- 
vived by  a  few  branches.  The  altar  fire  continued 
to  burn  until  the  last  member  of  the  family  had 
perished.  '  A  dead  fire '  and '  A  dead  family, '  were 
synonymous  expressions." 

I  had  never  forgotten  this  passage.  My  pro- 
fessor, in  reciting  it,  always  put  into  his  voice  an 
unforgettable  lyrical  fervor. 

In  this  house  I  had  known  three  generations, 
of  which  there  were  still  a  few  living  representa- 
tives :  the  hermit  of  Hautecombe,  Benoit,  and  the 
brother  and  sister  now  exiled  at  the  other  end  of 
the  world.  They  had  all  deserted  the  hearth  and 
allowed  the  fire  to  perish. 

Once  again  I  passed  through  the  door  of  the 
(courtyard :  Serafin  was  right,  I  had  only  to  push 
open  the  door.  I  advanced  into  the  stone  passage- 
way I  had  known  so  well.  To  the  left  was  the 
wood-shed,  full  of  wood ;  to  the  right  the  kitchen 
with  its  copper  pans  and  kettles ;  and,  at  the  back, 
the  vast  room  that  did  service  as  stable,  dining- 
and  bedroom.  I  was  almost  suffocated  by  an 


THE  HEARTH  WITHOUT  A  FIRE       243 

odor  of  stuffiness  and  mould,  as  of  a  place  long  un- 
inhabited. Could  it  be  that  houses,  like  human  be- 
ings, could  decompose?  I  hastened  to  throw  open 
the  shutters,  and  the  sunlight  enabled  me  to  in- 
spect the  interior. 

The  stable  was  spotlessly  clean.  Benoit  was  a 
methodical  and  orderly  man,  and  before  leaving 
he  had  tidied  up  the  whole  house :  the  dishes  and 
glasses  were  carefully  arranged  on  their  racks, 
the  press-beds  furnished  with  clean  linen,  the 
chairs  symmetrically  arranged  round  the  table,  on 
which  were  two  simple  wooden  statuettes — a  St. 
John  the  Baptist  and  a  St.  Anthony,  Patron  of 
Bessana — facing  each  other.  These  were,  I  pre- 
sumed, the  work  of  Jean-Marie,  who  delighted 
the  battalion  with  his  ingenuity  in  carving  cane- 
handles.  The  young  sculptor  had  caught  the  ro- 
bust spirit  of  Clapier  and  the  other  local  artists. 
On  the  wall,  just  over  the  table,  hung  a  photo- 
graph of  Jean-Marie  in  his  Chasseur  uniform.  I 
looked  for  pictures  of  his  brother  and  sister,  but 
found  none.  Jean-Marie  must  have  been  his 
mother's  favorite,  and  Benoit  had  allowed  the  pic- 
ture to  remain  out  of  a  half  paternal  regard  for 
the  boy.  Possibly  this  affection  had  at- times  miti- 
gated the  unhappy  existence  of  the  lonely  couple. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  reconstruct  the  last  scene. 
One  night  Jean-Marie  turns  up:  he  has  a  few 
days'  leave.  He  has  come  by  way  of  Lanslebourg 
on  foot.  He  enters  the  court  and  hears  angry 


244  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

voices.  Making  his  way  indoors  he  is  suddenly 
apprised  of  the  dreadful  secret :  a  chance  word  or 
a  brutal  taunt,  and  the  truth  flashes  over  him.  In 
the  presence  of  his  mother  and  stepfather  he 
pretends  to  have  heard  nothing  and  dissimulates 
his  astonishment  and  humiliation.  Sick  at  heart 
he  cuts-  short  the  time  of  his  leave  and  returns 
to  the  army  a  "changed  man."  A  man  of  quicker 
impulses  than  Etienne,  less  reflective  and  possibly 
less  scrupulous,  he  is  too  utterly  broken  to  seek 
forgetfulness  and  peace  in  this  life.  Death  is  to 
him  the  only  possible  escape. 

Jean-Marie's  death  had,  however,  completed 
the  epic  drama  by  bringing  about  the  ultimate 
punishment  of  the  guilty  pair.  Poor  Maddalena 
had  been  driven  back  instinctively  toward  her 
native  country,  blindly  hoping  to  find  there  a 
refuge  against  her  unbearable  anguish.  But  a 
more  imperious  instinct  had  forced  her  to  stop 
by  the  Oratory,  whither  she  had  gone  years  before 
on  one  of  her  pilgrimages.  As  for  Benoit,  he  had 
punished*  himself  deliberately.  Like  Judas  he 
had  received  the  reward  of  hi»  crime  and  had 
remorsefully  given  his  money  to  the  Cure  for 
the  use  of  the  parish.  Where  had  he  gonet  Who 
could  say!  Proud,  tenacious,  taciturn,  he  was 
not  the  man  to  bury  himself  in  a  monastery.  He 
might  have  gone  to  work  for  some  farmer  on  the 
far  side  of  the  Alps.  No,  he  was  not  one  to 
run  away  from  the  police;  he  had  gone  of  his 


THE  HEARTH  WITHOUT  A  FIRE       245 

own  free  will.  He,  too,  had  been  oppressed  by 
the  house,  and  the  house  had  ended  by  driving 
him  out. 

The  house  was,  indeed,  I  now  realized,  haunted 
by  an  unnameable  sadness.  There  generation  had 
succeeded  generation  during  three  hundred  years, 
and  God  Himself  had  entered  it:  I  was  present 
when  Petronille  had  received  Him. 

The  altar  fire  was  dead,  the  altar  itself  sacri- 
legiously cast  down.  The  Fire  that  dies  on  the 
hearth  is  the  end  of  the  family  cult.  I  was  seized 
with  an  unspeakable  desolation.  I  had  only  too 
convincing  proof  that  a  house  could  have  a  soul 
as  well  as  a  body.  This  house,  at  least,  was  some- 
thing more  than  a  conglomeration  of  wood  and 
stone  intended  to  harbor  and  protect  a  family  and 
reflect  its  character.  Had  it  been  only  that,  Benoit 
could  have  sold  it  at  once,  but  it  was  informed 
by  a  spirit  left  behind  by  those  who  had  lived 
in  it.  That  spirit  had  until  late  years  been  a 
beneficent  one,  created  by  peaceable  and  laborious 
Converts,  but  a  new  generation  had  brought  crime 
and  incest  into  the  family:  Benoit  and  Madda- 
lena  had  undone  the  good  of  the  past  and  allowed 
the  fire  to  die  out. 

I  closed  the  shutters  and  departed.  The  odor 
of  decomposition  nauseated  me.  As  I  passed  out 
of  the  courtyard  I  caught  sight  of  women's  faces 
peering  out  of  the  windows  of  nearby  houses. 
I  was  the  first  to  enter  that  accurst  home.  Was 


246  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

it  not  profanation?  The  suspicious  glances  of 
these  neighbors  were  eloquent,  and  I  knew  that 
Bessans,  as  well  as  I  had  learned  the  secret. 

My  thoughts  turned  to  Jean-Pierre.  I  had 
promised  Etienne  I  would  see  him  and  tell  him 
of  Jean-Marie's  death,  the  self-inflicted  punish- 
ment of  the  guilty  pair,  and  the  ultimate  extinc- 
tion of  the  house.  Then,  perhaps,  the  old  man 
would  at  last  consent  to  tell  me  everything  that 
he  knew.  What  more  had  he  to  fear  from  men! 
The  ten  years'  period  would  elapse  within  a  few 
days,  and  Benoit  would  never  return. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

THE  HERMIT  OP  HAUTECOMBE 

THE  hunting-season  was  about  to  open  and  I 
hastened  to  join  Louis  de  Vimines  at  his  lodge  on 
Lake  Lovitel.  Though  we  had  not  seen  each  other 
since  1913  we  said  nothing  about  the  war  that  had 
separated  us:  our  conversation  was  devoted  en- 
tirely to  the  subject  of  chamois — the  chamois  we 
had  killed  and  the  chamois  we  hoped  to  kill. 

The  season  was  a  brilliant  success :  I  brought 
down  seven  animals,  in  spite  of  the  sharp  com- 
petition of  the  poachers.  Every  boy  in  the  valley 
who  returned  from  the  war  brought  with  him  a 
Mauser  and  a  large  supply  of  cartridges.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  during  the  whole  campaign  they 
all  dreamed  of  the  royal  sport  they  would  have 
after  the  war  was  over. 

And  then  I  returned  to  Chambery.  I  had  not 
forgotten  the  projected  pilgrimage  to  Haute- 
combe.  But  the  journey  was  sure  to  be  a  difficult 
one,  for  the  single  steamer  on  Lake  Le  Bourget 
had  already  been  put  up  for  the  winter,  and  I 
should  have  to  charter  a  fisherman's  sail-boat. 

The  night  before  I  set  out  I  spent  reading  the 

247 


248  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

old  chronicles  wherein  it  is  told  of  the  founding 
of  the  House  of  Savoy  by  Saint-Denis. 

Lamartine  has  turned  Lake  Le  Bourget  into  the 
Lac  d'Elvire  and  made  it  his  own.  But  long  be- 
fore him  it  had  been  beloved  of  men  with  pas- 
sionate hearts. 

Hautecombe  is  a  love  pilgrimage.  Its  history 
is  more  fascinating  even  than  that  of  the  Converts, 
and  the  love  it  commemorates  is  a  holy  love.  The 
Abbey  was  founded  in  the  twelfth  century  by  the 
monks  of  Citeaux,  on  a  rock  overhanging  the 
shore.  Perched  on  that  steep  bank,  it  looks  as 
though  it  had  been  pushed  down  to  its  precarious 
position  by  the  thick  forests  that  cover  the  wild 
flanks  of  the  Mont  du  Chat.  The  Abbey  was  no 
more  than  a  refuge  when  Humbert  III,  Count  of 
Savoy,  came  there  to  bury  his  second  wife  Anne 
de  Zoeringen.  The  inconsolable  Humbert,  leaving 
his  States,  determined  to  live  there  for  the  rest 
of  his  days  in  solitude  and  prayer.  The  silence 
and  peace  of  mountains  and  water  were  in  per- 
fect harmony  with  his  sorrow. 

But  he  was  not  to  remain  there  long.  The  no- 
bles, clergy  and  people  unanimously  bewailed  the 
loss  of  their  leader,  whose  voluntary  retirement 
deprived  them  of  a  ruler  and  a  successor  to  the 
throne.  A  committee,  therefore,  composed  of  rep- 
resentatives of  the  three  classes,  was  sent  to  the 
Count.  Starting  from  Chambery  the  ambassa- 
dors made  their  way  to  the  village  of  Le  Bourget 


THE  HERMIT  OF  HAUTECOMBE   249 

and  set  sail  over  the  lake  to  Hautecombe.  The 
Count  received  them  courteously,  and  though  he 
suspected  the  purpose  of  their  errand  he  feigned 
surprise.  The  leader  of  the  clergy  was  the  first 
to  speak.  His  words  were  to  the  point,  if  we  may 
credit  the  old  chronicler:  "What  thing  art  thou 
doing  here  and  what  has  put  into  thy  head  the 
strange  fancy  to  refuse  to  take  unto  thyself  an- 
other wife?  Far  better  were  it  that  religion  did 
not  exist  than  that  thou  shouldst  permit  thy  land 
to  perish  without  heirs  and  thyself  without  suc- 
cessors! Alas,  if  thou  diest  without  a  son  who 
will  protect,  govern  and  defend  us,  and  lead  us 
into  battle?  Unfortunate  land,  well  may  it  be 
said  that  its  lord  will  cause  our  ruin !  Alas,  proud 
lord,  be  not  the  cause  of  our  destruction,  leave 
not  thy  land,  which  is  now  widowed,  alone  and  full 
of  sorrows !  For  the  love  of  God,  my  lord,  we  con- 
jure thee  to  re-marry,  that  we  may  have  an  heir 
and  our  country's  future  be  assured." 

To  this  'harangue  the  Count  replied:  "Thou 
speakest  in  vain,  for  I  will  remain  here  and  end 
my  days  in  this  place."  Whereto  the  ambas- 
sadors answered  that  he  could  achieve  salvation 
as  well  in  marriage  as  alone.  "Thou  oughtest  to 
marry ! ' '  they  cried. 

But  Humbert  was  supported  in  his  resistance 
by  the  Abbot  and  monks  of  the  monastery.  See- 
ing this,  the  nobles  and  the  people  took  the  afore- 
said Abbot  and  monks  aside  and  swore  that  unless 


250  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

they  joined  the  others  in  forcing  the  Count  to 
leave  and  re-marry,  they  would  set  fire  to  the 
Abbey.  The  'holy  men,  seized  with  a  sudden  fear, 
capitulated ;  and  the  Count  promised  to  re-marry 
on  condition  that  a  suitable  wife  be  found  for 
him. 

He  married  Beatrix  de  Vienne  of  whom  was 
born  his  successor  Thomas,  who  in  turn  left  a 
magnificent  family — fourteen  legitimate  children, 
Guicheron  assures  us,  and  two  illegitimate.  In 
his  will  Humbert  asked  to  bg  buried  at  Haute- 
combe,  by  the  side  of  the  best  loved  of  his  three 
wives.  The  other  two  he  had  buried  together  at 
a  cemetery  in  distant  parts. 

This  is  why  the  Princes  of  Savoy  chose  Haute- 
combe  for  their  royal  bury  ing-place. 

I,  too,  embarked  at  the  village  of  Le  Bourget 
and  set  sail  over  the  lake.  It  was  one  of  those 
October  days  that  begin  in  a  fog  and  end  in 
golden  radiance.  The  border  of  the  lake  skirts 
the  foot  of  precipitous  mountains,  the  slopes 
of  which  are  everywhere  cut  up  into  deep  ravines 
full  of  bushes  tinted  in  greens  and  purples,  and 
gilded  by  the  autumn  sunlight. 

The  Chateaux  de  Bourdeau,  an  ancient  square 
fortress,  rises  on  a  terrace  projecting  from  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  surrounded  by  chestnut- 
groves  and  gardens.  Beyond  the  chateau  there  is 
no  sign  of  human  habitation:  all  is  wild  and  un- 
cultivated, with  gaunt  rocks  almost  buried  under 


THE  HERMIT  OF  HAUTECOMBE        251 

a  carpet  of  shrubbery.  Between  my  boat  and  the 
shore  the  water  was  a  dark,  ominous-looking 
green,  while  out  toward  the  middle  of  the  lake  it 
was  turning  from  pearl  gray  to  a  vivid  blue  as 
the  sun  gradually  melted  through  the  low-lying 
mists.  The  opposite  shore  is  a  smiling  shore, 
sweet  and  restful  to  the  eye.  Yonder  is  the  hill 
of  Tresserve  half  hiding  Aix,  and  there  Saint- 
Innocent  with  its  spire  emerging  from  the  tree- 
tops;  and  La  Chambotte,  a  diminutive  Alp;  and 
over  there  that  great  opening  of  the  horizon 
marks  the  spot  where,  beyond  the  low-lying 
Chateau  de  Chatillon,  the  Lake  is  lost  among  the 
rushes  of  La  Chautagne. 

Passing  the  last  rocky  headlands  extending 
down  from  the  Mont  du  Chat,  I  catch  sight  of 
the  Abbey  of  Hautecombe.  Seen  from  this  point 
it  looks  like  a  white  ship  ready  to  set  sail  into 
the  lake.  Its  gothic  tower — the  Tour  du  Phare — 
completes  the  resemblance,  for  it  looks  exactly 
like  a  mast.  Between  the  cliff  and  the  water  there 
is  room  only  for  the  wall,  originally  thrown  up 
for  the  protection  of  the  royal  tombs.  It  would  be 
an  ideal  spot  for  meditations  on  death  were  it 
not  for  a  certain  festive  atmosphere;  this  corner 
of  Savoy  invites  complete  abandonment  to  the 
joys  of  life.  Sometimes  on  summer  nights  you 
may  catch  sight  of  the  fireworks  at  Aix,  a  con- 
stant reminder  to  the  monks  of  human  turmoil. 
A  small  matter,  perhaps,  but  such  things  assume 


252  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

a  disproportionate  importance  in  the  eyes  of  men 
who  have  renonnced  the  world. 

I  stepped  ashore  and  started  up  the  short  ave- 
nue of  plane-trees  that  skirts  the  outer  walls  of 
the  Abbey.  Passing  by  the  celebrated  fountain  I 
rang  the  bell.  The  brother  who  received  me 
offered  to  show  me  the  chapel,  but  I  declined  and 
asked  to  see  "  Brother  Couvert." 

"The  old  man!" 

It  was  necessary  to  demand  formal  permission 
of  the  Superior. 

The  Superior  received  me  in  a  cloister  sur- 
rounding a  lovely  rose  garden.  The  flowers  bathed 
this  old  Florentine  cloister  in  a  flood  of  soft  light. 

"Here's  your  friend,"  said  the  Superior.  "You 
will  find  it  pleasant  in  the  garden  just  now:  the 
sun  is  shining. " 

He  ushered  us  both  toward  the  gardens 
overhanging  the  Lake.  Meantime  I  had  had  no 
opportunity  of  looking  at  "my  friend,"  and  had 
scarcely  spoken  a  word  to  him,  but  as  I  exchanged 
the  ordinary  commonplaces  of  greeting  and  asked 
how  he  was  feeling,  I  had  leisure  to  scrutinize 
him.  At  first  I  had  hardly  recognized  him ;  I  had 
not  seen  him  for  nine  years.  He  must  have  been 
nearly  eighty.  He  was  a  pathetic  shrivelled  figure 
in  his  coarse  robe  of  dirty  white — almost  a  skele- 
ton. This  bent  old  man  was  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave.  His  cheeks  were  shrunken,  and  a  thin 
uneven  growth  of  white  beard  covered  the  sharp 


THE  HERMIT  OF  HAUTECOMBE        253 

bones  of  his  face  and  the  extremity  of  his  chin. 
However,  there  remained  the  same  regular  fea- 
tures, the  general  outline  so  characteristic  of  the 
Maurienne  race.  The  eyes,  deep-set  as  they  were 
in  the  hollow  sockets,  glowed  with  a  tenacious 
fire,  expressing  a  keen  intelligence  and  undimin- 
ished  will  power.  The  years  had  bent  and  twisted 
his  body,  but  his  spirit  was  untouched.  He  fol- 
lowed my  conversation,  immediately  comprehend- 
ing the  most  subtle  allusions,  and  answering 
briefly,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  tearing  away  the 
veils  that  shrouded  his  mystery. 

Though  his  intelligence  remained,  I  rather  think 
his  feelings  had  lost  their  edge.  Old  men  are 
either  too  emotional  or  not  sufficiently  so.  He 
listened  in  silence  to  my  account  of  the  manner 
and  reasons  of  Jean-Marie's  death,  but  when  I 
had  finished  he  seemed  indifferent.  Seeing  that 
he  showed  so  little  feeling,  I  told  him  of  Madda- 
lena's  still  more  tragic  end.  He  had  heard  of 
her  death  through  Etienne,  but  knew  no  details. 
To  my  great  surprise  he  pronounced  this  brief 
funeral  oration: 

"You  oughtn't  to  go  out  of  your  own  district 
for  a  wife ! ' ' 

He  was  obviously  blaming  Claude  for  not  mar- 
rying a  girl  from  Bessans  or  one  of  the  neigh- 
boring villages.  Claude  had  evidently  done  wrong 
in  crossing  the  mountains  and  bringing  home 
an  unknown  Italian  wife.  She  was  to  blame  for 


854  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

everything;  it  was  she  who  had  ruined  the  home. 

But  was  it  indeed  she  who  had  seduced  Benoit? 
True,  he  had  seemed  scornful  toward  her,  espe- 
cially at  first.  Had  she  flirted  with  him,  worn 
those  pretty  ribbons  and  assumed  that  virginal 
air  for  the  purpose  of  overcoming  his  hostility? 
Had  she  made  his  conquest  out  of  pique,  jealousy, 
passion?  I  wondered  if  Jean-Pierre  had  sus- 
pected? He  could  not,  I  knew,  be  certain,  as  he 
had  not  discovered  the  secret  of  their  relations 
until  after  Petronille's  death. 

Then  I  asked  about  Benoit,  but  the  old  man 
knew  nothing  of  him.  Etienne,  who  received  the 
news  from  the  Cure  of  Bessans,  had  not  written 
to  his  grandfather  about  Benoit 's  disappearance. 
Was  this  not  proof  enough  that  Etienne  had  not 
forgotten,  even  if  he  had  forgiven?  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  write  the  name  of  his  uncle 
• — his  stepfather. 

I  next  told  the  old  man  what  I  had  learned  from 
Serafin:  the  long  winter  after  Maddalena's  death 
when  Benoit  had  lived  in  total  isolation ;  the  sale 
of  the  cattle,  the  farms  and  pastures,  the  follow- 
ing spring;  the  strange  gift  to  the  Cure,  and  the 
mysterious  departure  to  unknown  regions.  As  I 
finished  the  poor  old  man,  quite  lost  in  the  folds 
of  his  voluminous  robe,  uttered  a  piercing  cry. 
This  cry,  torn  from  the  heart  of  the  patriarch, 
expressed  the  old  man's  horror  on  realizing  that 
his  race  had  become  extinct. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  HAUTECOMBE       255 

"And  the  house  I" 

His  house  had  died  before  his  son.  His  bright 
eyes  could  not  see  Benoit,  wandering  through  the 
mountain  mists,  driven  from  his  own  home  by  re- 
morse and  fear:  he  saw  only  the  old  house,  the 
house  that  was  dead,  the  house  in  which  the  fire 
had  been  allowed  to  die,  and  from  the  chimney 
of  which  came  no  smoke. 

Yet  he  had  been  the  first  to  leave  it,  unwilling 
as  he  was  to  live  in  the  presence  of  incest  and 
murder.  It  was  after  his  example  that  the  others 
had  gone  away.  I  described  in  detail  my  last 
visit,  telling  him  of  the  desolation  that  had  fallen 
upon  the  great  courtyard  and  the  sickening  odor 
of  decomposition.  I  omitted  nothing  that  might 
induce  him  to  open  his  heart  to  me.  This  was 
not  the  sole  motive  of  my  cruelty,  for  I  was  to  a 
great  extent  the  victim  of  my  own  thoughts  and 
experiences :  I  had  been  so  closely  associated  with 
this  drama  that  I  was  no  longer  master  of  my 
feelings,  thoughts  and  words.  He  listened  quietly 
and  when  I  had  ended  he  spoke  as  if  he  were 
merely  thinking  aloud: 

" There  are  other  Converts  in  America." 

He  was  wondering  whether  the  family  could 
be  revived.  Was  it  not  possible  to  induce  some 
of  these  Couverts  to  return  to  their  native  land! 
Graft  a  new  branch  on  the  decaying  tree  1  Why, 
it  would  be  like  the  entrance  of  Fortinbras  in  the 
last  act  of  Hamlet.  And  I  was  like  one  of  the 


256  THE  HOUSE  THAT  DIED 

ambassadors  who  had  come  to  Hautecombe  to 
demand  the  return  of  Count  Humbert  of  Savoy  to 
his  throne. 

"So  there  are  Converts  in  America!  Are  they 
close  relations?" 

"Sons  of  a  younger  brother  of  mine." 

"Have  you  their  address?" 

"I'll  find  it" 

"Where?" 

"There!" 

He  pointed  to  his  forehead.  The  next  instant 
the  light  had  died  out  of  his  eyes  and  he  mur- 
mured : 

"That's  best  after  all." 

What  was  best  after  all?  That  no  one  should 
re-enter  the  house,  that  the  line  should  become 
extinct,  that  the  crime  should  be  expiated  to  the 
end  in  silence?  It  was  thus  that  I  interpreted  the 
tranquil  expression  of  Jean-Pierre's  face.  The 
idea  had  tempted  him  for  the  fraction  of  a  mo- 
ment. I  should  never  again  try  to  make  the 
old  man  confide  in  me,  and  I  made  no  further 
allusion  to  the  secret.  I  said  good-bye  and  turned 
to  go,  but  he  insisted  on  accompanying  me  to 
the  boat. 

After  I  was  seated  he  put  one  foot  on  the  back 
seat  as  if  he  intended  to  come  with  me. 

"Come  along,  Jean-Pierre,"  I  said  half  in  fun. 
His  eyes  were  strangely  troubled  and  I  am  sure 
he  seriously  considered  the  proposal — but  only 


THE  HERMIT  OF  HAUTECOMBE       257 

for  an  instant.  This  little  boat,  ready  to  put  out 
from  his  shore,  symbolized  his  former  indepen- 
dence, and  the  possible  resumption  of  authority. 
For  a  second  I  imagined  him  picturing  to  himself 
a  triumphant  return  to  the  house  in  which  he  had 
ruled,  but  he  relapsed  once  more,  submissively 
obedient  to  the  rules  of  his  order.  One  word, 
that  now  rose  to  his  lips,  had  sufficed : 

"Benoit!" 

It  was  for  Benoit 's  sake  that  he  had  given  up 
everything  and  accepted  the  humility  of  personal 
service.  He  was  expiating  Benoit 's  crime.  But 
the  wandering  fugitive  had  not  yet,  according  to 
the  ancient  expression,  "acquitted  his  life." 

He  thought  I  had  not  heard  him,  for  he  had 
hardly  raised  his  voice  above  a  whisper.  He  was 
sure  I  could  not  have  understood. 

I  rose  to  my  feet  and  standing  on  the  gunwale, 
I  kissed  him  good-bye. 

Turning  round  in  my  seat  at  some  distance 
from  land,  I  watched  his  frail  silhouette  diminish. 

He  stood  watching  me  until  the  boat  was  no 
more  than  a  speck,  then  turned  round  and  re- 
turned to  the  monastery. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WEEDS 

THE  coarse  white  robe  under  the  plane-trees, 
the  huge  white  ship-like  monastery  of  Haute- 
combe,  the  mauve  and  lilac  surface  of  the  lake 
under  the  evening  sky — such  was  the  last  setting 
of  the  drama  which  I  had  myself  reconstructed 
without  the  direct  evidence  of  any  other  living 
soul. 

From  Le  Bourget  I  returned  to  Chambery  on 
foot.  In  the  fields  peasants  were  burning  great 
piles  of  those  weeds  which  the  Savoyards  call 
Covasses.  The  ashes  are  used  to  purify  the  soil. 

The  sun  was  setting  in  a  glorious  riot  of  dark 
red,  an  autumn  sunset. 

"Yes,"  I  mused  still  under  the  influence  of  my 
visit,  "these  weeds  purify  the  earth  ready  to 
receive  the  new  seed,  to  give  it  life,  and  eventu- 
ally to  render  a  rich  harvest  of  rye  and  oats  and 
wheat.  Is  it  not  possible  that  a  like  phenomenon 
should  take  place  in  the  realm  of  the  spirit!  Can- 
not a  whole  race  be  rid  of  what  is  evil  and  emerge 
purified!  Will  not  the  virtues  of  preceding  gen- 
erations atone  for  the  vices  of  the  last!  Was  not 
old  Jean-Pierre  right  in  wishing  for  a  moment  to 

258 


WEEDS  259 

reinstate  his  relatives  in  the  house  of  his  fathers, 
desiring  that  they  should  again  kindle  the  fire  that 
had  gone  out?  Surely,  after  so  much  sacrifice, 
the  crime  had  been  atoned  for?" 

As  I  passed  along  the  road  I  pictured  other 
fires  whose  flames  were  higher  and  brighter  than 
those  about  me,  flames  that  rose  far  over  and  be- 
yond the  horizon:  over  the  cemetery  of  Bessans 
where  lay  the  honest  hard-working  ancestors  of 
Jean-Pierre  and  the  saintly  Petronille  whom  God 
had  visited  in  her  stable;  over  the  high  terrace 
of  Hautecombe;  flames  at  the  ends  of  the  earth 
where  Etienne  and  Eina  were  consecrating  their 
lives  to  the  work  of  humanity;  flames  that  sprang 
from  a  shell-riddled  wood  on  the  Chemin  des 
Dames,  at  the  foot  of  La  Malmaison;  and  last 
of  all  the  ardent  flames  that  supported  the  pure 
and  faithful  heart  of  Melanie,  who  had  renounced 
an  earthly  love  for  another  and  a  greater. 

If  weeds  can  purify  the  soil  is  it  not  possible 
that  the  flames  of  sacrifice  can  dispel  the  shadows 
of  crime?  Surely  human  justice  is  satisfied  with 
voluntary  expiation  such  as  this,  attesting  as  it 
does  the  solidarity  of  the  race  and  its  power  of 
redemption ! 

THE  END 


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